


breathe in, breathe out (i'm right here)

by ventilation



Category: Justice League Dark: Apokolips War (2020), Justice League vs. Teen Titans (2016), Reign of the Supermen (2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Mentioned/Referenced Suicide Attempt, Non-Canonical Character Death, Strong Language, Unresolved Romantic Feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:20:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24506074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ventilation/pseuds/ventilation
Summary: and then suddenly, he doesn't want to be the wingman anymoreor: conner kent through the endtimes (feat. his feelings)
Relationships: Clark Kent & Lois Lane, Kon-El | Conner Kent & Damian Wayne, Kon-El | Conner Kent/Raven, Raven/Damian Wayne
Comments: 42
Kudos: 129





	1. Chapter 1

This is not how he had wanted their reunion to go. Like, _at all._ Did he expect it? Yeah, of course he did (—he’s _not_ stupid—), but that didn’t stop him from wanting this whole evening to go well. Or, at least, _less murdery_.

The sharp edge of the blade digging against his skin is cold and unrelenting, and although it doesn’t hurt as much as it should’ve due to his invulnerability, it still doesn’t make it any less dangerous. Especially when the sword is in _that dude’s_ hands.

He’s just glad it’s not Kryptonite that’s currently jabbed at his neck.

“ _God,_ _Damian_ ,” he hisses out as he tilts his head back. “Glad to see you missed me too, buddy.” With the back of his hand, he pushes the sword away, and turns to look at the ragtag group that had infiltrated the League of Assassins' sanctum. (In which he’s a part of, stupidly.) None of them are badly hurt, _good_ , and so he looks back at his friend, only to have the corners of his mouth dip into a grimace at seeing Clark move forward. The scowl on Damian's face is not friendly.

 _Oh, god, no._ Conner breathes, willing himself to stop the sudden want to thrum his fingers along his thigh at the thought of _lil ole Supes_ saying something he shouldn’t say. _Fuck_ , this isn’t going as well as had hoped — scratch that, this is spiralling into the worst possible scenario, and frankly, he’s not surprised.

For supposedly having lost his powers, Clark’s almost supernatural ability of inviting disaster and misfortune just by _being there_ seems to be working just fine.

“I know you hate me,” he hears Clark say, throat tight and shoulders drawn near him, and, _god, you don’t say that directly to someone who really fucking hates you unless you want to die quicker, damn it._ The longer tufts of his hair stick to his forehead, the sweat from trying to survive hordes of assassins several minutes prior still gleaming from the shine of the overhead lights, despite the freezing temperature of _wherever_ _the hell_ this place is. “But, I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t necessar—”

Conner sees his attack miles away, and he catches Damian’s foot before it connects to Clark’s chest. He pushes him off, and Damian, being the master fighter that he is, manages to find a way to break himself free of Conner’s grasp and lands on the ground effortlessly. _Tch._

“Sorry,” the apology slips from Conner’s mouth, and it seems he’s unable to suppress the tick that has settled somewhere in his jaw. It was tasteless, void of any sincerity, and he finds the already seething expression on his (hopefully still) friend’s face morph into something uglier. “But, I can’t let you kill him.” He puts both of his hands up in the air for an added effect, though the flippancy of his action might have not been a good way to emphasise their state of _non-threat_. “‘Sides, we come in peace and all that jazz.”

(Perhaps, he should’ve waved a white cloth? That usually worked wonders in stopping one-sided fights in cartoons.) He doesn’t comment on how his knuckles had turned stark white from clutching the hilt of his sword too tightly and how his body is set in that painfully familiar fighting stance, ready to slash and dice whoever’s nearest. Conner _may have_ taken a step back, y’know, just in case.

But, to his surprise, Damian doesn’t do anything but let fire burn in his eyes as he snarled out, “Give me one good reason not to kill you all right now.” Maybe staying with the League of Assassins for two years actually did Damian some good, because it’s a whole lot better than what _before-the-whole-shitshow-happened_ Damian would have reacted to his blatant disregard of … _whatever it was he had been disregarding_. (Old Damian would have chucked his sword, his batarangs, and probably his shoe at him. All three likely explosive.)

And, it’s there, somewhere inside his chest: the awful ache of yearning for those better days, where it was all training, fighting the local bad guys, and _sunny-day-every-day Jump City with the team_ . ... _God_ , the memories flood in, and Conner has to turn away and squeeze his eyes shut before his feelings overwhelm him. ( _“Breathe in_ ,” she said, her thumb rubbing against the inside of his wrist, her voice low and hushed. _“Breathe in with me.”_ )

The crunching sound of footsteps makes him snap back to reality, and he feels the air shift as Constantine walks up to them. “Alright,” the sorcerer/wizard/magician guy (—Conner’s not quite sure—) starts, the drawl in his voice reminding him of _Daddy Lex_ for some reason. It kinda pisses him off. “It’s a long explanation, though. How much time d’you got?”

He could hear Damian gritting his teeth from where he stood, and it’s not a pretty sound.

 _Shit_ , this isn’t going well. Actually, no. With the way things are looking, _this situation isn’t going anywhere_ _at all_ , period. It would probably be assassins and swords and him trying to defend Superman and whatnot in a matter of seconds again, and he is _not_ in the mood for all of that. Conner may be Superboy, but _goddamn it_ , he had been fighting parademons for three days straight _and_ ransacked buildings for whatever Constantine needed, so he thinks it’s enough of a reason to _not_ want to move. ( _God_ , who would’ve thought Clark would be such a liability without his powers.)

(And, they’re wasting too much time. He should’ve just knocked Damian out and kidnapped him, but instead, they had followed Clark’s convoluted plan of showing up at his assassin-filled doorsteps and hoping he’d listen to them. “He needs to know so we’ll tell him,” was what Clark said, and, _yeah?_ Isn’t this why they’re going so far: to tell him? What would it have mattered if Damian was bound to a chair in their makeshift headquarters back in Metropolis, other than avoiding a dragging battle?)

For a moment, it’s silent. _Too_ silent as they wait with bated breaths for a reaction of some sorts (—expected: violent; hoped: not violent—). His left eye is twitching as the biting cold howls at their direction, and somewhere to his right, he could hear the grunts of … _Mr Gargoyle Man_ (?) as the lady in his grip is still trying to kick his head off. At least, that’s a bit amusing.

And, finally, the fire in the green orbs of his (not-so) friend had faded and is now replaced by a cold, calculating stare that’s as chilling as the biting air around him. Damian rolls his shoulders, and straightens his back. There’s still tension in his arms as he sheaths his sword and runs his fingers through his hair, but, well, this is a bit ... better? Yeah. Let’s just go with that.

Much to his surprise, Damien turns around and strides towards the sanctum without another word, his cape fluttering behind him. At this point, the female assassin had finally broken free from Mr Gargoyle Man, and Conner watches as she walks beside her leader, hair dishevelled and arms red.

(Her face is shrouded in a veil of neutrality, mirroring the one Damien had, which is … quite impressive, actually. If _he_ were the second-in-command and had his ass handed to him at the first four seconds of attacking, he’s not sure he could pull that _not-being-embarrassed facade_ well. So, props to her!)

“Umm.” His lips are probably making a weird line right now, but he couldn’t help pursing them together in a confused smile. He meets Clark’s eyes, and does _something_ with his hands, motioning to the retreating forms. 

_Is that an invitation or had he activated some kind of alarm to send out more assassins and so they’ve decided to withdraw and spectate? Is there like some kind of mythical creature underneath their feet right now? Should they_ follow?

Before he could verbally ask (—what questions and to whom, he does not know—), the two assassins have stopped walking, and Damian is throwing them _that_ Damian Wayne Look™ over his shoulder: half-bored, half-patronising, one brow raised. _All insufferable brat._

“Are you all coming, or not?” and, then he starts to walk again.

 _Insufferable brat._ Conner couldn’t help but grumble under his breath as he begins to float to the foreboding entrance. _God,_ he can’t believe he forgot this dude’s mood swings are a lot messier than her—

He stops.

With his eyebrows down and his teeth chewing on his tongue, he hesitates a few inches from where he had been levitating. Moving to the side, he watches as Constantine, Clark and Mr Gargoyle Man (—he _really_ should learn his name—) enter and ultimately disappear into the shadows of the sanctum.

He floats back down, and glances around the now-vacant grounds. No assassins, no evidence of a fight, no _nothing_ . It’s a cold sight, and it’s not just because _it’s cold_ , but there’s just something so haunting with how empty it looks—not to say it’s a _bad_ thing, seeing as anywhere else is infested with parademons. It’s just—

(— _the breath is knocked out of him, and he claws at the air and at the black hand pinning him down. No, no! He has to move. He_ has _to move! But, the screeching all around him is deafening. It sounds like death and—)_

There’s a shiver in his spine, and he grabs the back of his nape. He feels hot and cold and all sorts of things, and suddenly his hands are clammy, and he can’t breathe, _he can’t breath can’t breathe_. (“ _Breathe in. Breathe_ —”)

“Crap,” he spits out when he finally, _finally_ gets himself to calm down and ease his beating heart, his breath shuddering, and he quickly walks to the safety of the building.

The inside is, not surprisingly, less intimidating than it is outside, the walls and shoji screens and hallways and corners exuding an aura of almost peace. Perhaps, in another time, he would have commented on how _suspicious_ that is, because, y’know, _League of Assassins_ (—he doesn’t know who they _are_ exactly, but an organisation with that kind of name would make most people be inclined to believe its causes are nowhere near benevolent—), but with his prior … _episode_ , the interesting contrast flies over his head, and all he could think about is how thankful he is for the solid surfaces now surrounding him and for the artificial lighting washing away the darkness of the night.

 _Ah, fuck._ It takes him another second or two to still his hands from trembling, and he exhales, a heavy breath through his nose. Okay, _okay_ , he’s all good now, _he is fine._ And, to prove he is, he stretches his arms until a joint pops before extending his hearing to find out where the group had gone, and he finds them in a room just a few shoji screens down.

The hardwood floor doesn’t creak under his feet, but he could feel their small whines as he walks the total length of fifteen steps towards what appears to be a resting room. The sounds are quite quite calming, actually. Almost like one of those ASMR videos he had a habit of watching before turning in for the night.

Too bad the resounding argument ruins the whole vibe. He leans against the wall behind Damian, arms crossed as he decides to sit out with trying to reason with birdboy. The adults can handle it. (He thinks. He _hopes._ )

His fingers twitch, and he feels his nails just itching to dig themselves into his spandex. Or, play with his jacket. _Or, something._

“—and, you _expect me to believe this would work?_ ” Ah. So, Clark had jumped into telling him they had a(n incomplete) plan, huh? That’s wasn’t a good move. A good _try_ , but not really something he should’ve tried at all. To his credit though, Damian’s voice is cool and collected, not at all like the volatile atmosphere that’s literally radiating off of him. “Do you know how many people have died ever since your plan two years ago had spectacularly failed? Do you know how many people have lost their families—how many … how many children have lost _their families?_ How would you expect me to believe that this plan of yours won’t cause more damage than the last?”

“I know it’s difficult to believe,” the tone in Clark’s voice is soft, sympathetic. Regretful. Conner knows the guilt had been eating at him every single day for the past two years, but this time, the poison administered by his former best partner’s son is painful and the dosage is high. The shadows in the planes of Clark’s face grows darker as he bows his head. “The attack two years ago was … I haven’t stopped thinking about that day, and I hate myself for … for everything—”

Damian snorts, cutting in, “As you should.” Conner could feel Constantine’s smug grin from the other side of the screen.

Clark continued without missing a bit, “And, I want to fix this. _All_ of this.” Another pause, and he sees Damian’s body tensing. _“Help me fix this._ The plan is—”

“No.”

“... No?”

“I’ve heard enough of your pointless babbling. Apologies, but _I am not interested._ ” There’s a finality in his words that ticks Conner off, his fingers’ twitching evolving into full-blown spasms. He shoves his hands into his jacket’s pockets, because if Conner can’t see it, then how possibly could the spasms be real?

Maybe … maybe it _is_ a bit naive of him to think Damian would listen to them patiently. Especially since they’re still technically trespassers. And, especially since _Clark Kent_ is _here_. _Superman_ : the guy who literally caused all of this to happen. All of this. This … _this—_

Yeah, okay, _three-fourths insufferable brat,_ _one-fourth reasonably impatient jerk_ then. He can’t really blame Damian for his lack of hospitality, nor for his want to kick Clark. (Kick, maim, kill. Whatever.)

Still, _can’t this kid just_ shut up _for a minute?_ Time is— He licks his lips, finding them dry and chapped, and Conner lets his head fall back to his shoulder, letting it thud against the wall behind him weakly.

Time is running out and he can’t—he _can’t_ — The thought leaves him, and _fuck_ , he’s pathetic. Weak.

 _Fuck,_ he should stop thinking. Yeah, that’s probably for the best.

He turns his attention back to the argument still going on in front of him, realising too late that he might have blanked out a little bit as the situation looks to have developed into Damian now growling and snarling, sword unsheathed again and the volatile tension had erupted into electric sparks he swears he could feel. Even the sounds of Mr Gargoyle Man’s (Ed— _Edigan?_ ) chewing had ceased.

This feels like it’s Clark’s fault again, and Conner smiles tightly. As much as the man probably deserves to get nicked for his choice words and such, Clark needs to be alive. _Both_ of them, Boy Blunder and Supes, needs to be alive. He pushes himself off the wall.

“Okay, come on, guys,” he speaks for the first time since entering the sanctum, his voice cracking from not being able to use it for the last ten minutes or so. ( _What?_ So, he likes to talk, sue him.) He coughs. “Let’s all calm down here, and—”

Conner doesn’t hear what Damian says— _no_ , he actually _did_ hear it, but he doesn’t remember what was said, the words lost in the increasingly loud drumming of his heart, and desperately—so _very desperately_ , he wants to know. He wants to _remember_ what was said: each word, phrase, sentence that had been laced with blame and anger and hate that made his stomach twist and his eyes burn, because _what the fuck._ What in the flying _fuck_ did he just say?

In the back of his mind, he realises the stretch of silence and tension had not been caused by Clark, and _ha!_ That’s actually kind of amusing (—someone _other than Clark_ had pissed everyone off? _W_ _oah_ —), and he takes a step forward without much of a thought—without much of a _reason to_ , and _god_ , _he wants to remember so he can have a reason to._

What did Damian say? What did _Damian say?_ _What did he say?_

The question haunts him, and he feels himself scratch at his mind, trying desperately to connect the dots and ease himself away from his anger before he did something he would later on regret. Even Clark had given him a pointed look, a silent warning to not lose his temper. (And, he gets it, the underlying message of "not now, don't tell him now— _don't tell him_ _yet,_ and he turns away.) Maybe he just said something Damian-like?

Like, maybe, _shut up_ , but in Damian language?

Conner almost chuckles as he forces himself to stop mid-walk. A "shut up" is a Damian thing. That's probably what had been said, and he releases a breath. It's just Damian being Damian.

“And, besides, I find your presence and involvement in all this rather … _shocking_ , to say the least _._ Even if you are half-Kent, _you're still half-Luthor_.” But, then again, Damian's a dick.

He doesn’t really mean to punch Damien. He doesn’t _think_ of it, either. Damian is a vital part in their mission to take back Earth, so punching him is out of the question if they were to get Damian’s cooperation. But, he does punch him anyway, making him turn around with a hand on his shoulder-plate while the other closed into a fist, his knuckles going at it hard against his cheek.

(Because, how dare he. _How dare he?_ After all of— _after everything, he_ —)

Maybe the two years spent with the League of Assassins didn’t do him any good after all, even going so far as to dulling his reflexes to a point of not being able to raise his arms fast enough at an attempt to defend. Not that he cares, because at this moment, all he could think about is how satisfying it is to see blood drip down his nose and watch as he falls apart, his face contorting into something else as Conner leans down and whispers to his ear:

 _“Raven’s dead.”_ He raises an eyebrow at him, and the trembling of his fingers return with a vengeance. (Clark and his warnings could just screw it.) “Those enough reasons for ya, you brat?”

God, this is _not_ how he had wanted their reunion to go. But, fuck it all anyway.

\--


	2. Chapter 2

The aching in his shoulder is annoying, and he groans into his hand, his teeth biting into his palm when the pain suddenly spikes. “Mmph!” He kinda sounds pathetic, but to be honest, at the moment, he _feels_ pathetic.

His mouth lets go of his hand once the pain subsides, and he looks at the machinery by his side. It’s modified, with bits and pieces of other tech screwed in together from parts he had been able to salvage from almost random places, making it into a makeshift two-way radio. Supposedly. It actually looks more like a microwave than it is radio (—or computer, or phone, or whatever it was the thick cord had been from—), but at the moment, he couldn’t care less if it could cook popcorn as long as it could get a _damn signal_.

In which, it is, unfortunately, not catching any.

“Come on, come on, come on,” he pleads.

He fiddles with the knobs, turning it this way and that, in a strange delirious-like hope that he would hear _anything else_ , but no matter his fumbling for a signal, all that comes out of it is the annoying static that has filled the room since he had barged into it about— He looks at the watch strapped on his wrist, one of the few other things he had taken from the aforementioned random places, and cursed. He’s been at it for more than two hours now, over the time limit he had restricted himself to.

A stray thought fills his head that suggests that perhaps he hadn’t been high up enough. Maybe if he could get to a higher vantage point, the radio would pick something up, and, hopefully, bring his seemingly-endless search to an end. Turning his head, he looks at the ceiling—or, rather, the lack thereof, noting the blue sky peeking from the rather large hole above. 

Ah, right, this _is_ the highest vantage point he could find, a luxury hotel at the center of the city that had certainly seen better days. In its former glory, it could have easily passed for something Luthor would have checked in if he were ever in these parts, but now all it can afford to house are the rats and creepy-crawlies that certainly have no issue with finding residence in _The Tenerife_ . No one likes a hotel full of bodies and corpses trapped within it, after all. (If there even _is_ anyone willing to take a trip to the fallen city of Acity*.)

The reminder of the dead makes his throat clog up, and he blinks away the sudden onslaught of memories that had broken through his focus, reminding him of the horrors he had shoved in the back of his mind. He had thought he had caged that part with a lock and key, but then again, Conner is never one to deny himself of his musings—never had, and never will. (Quite honestly, he doesn’t know where the trait comes from: Kent’s superhero anxieties or Luthor’s neverending scheming. Or, maybe it’s from both.) Even _if_ he would rather forget about them.

_The heavens split open, orange and angry red, as if gateways to Hell, and he stands to the side. He’s rooted to the spot, a sinking feeling in his chest, and he looks around. Nobody is moving, and the dread is palpable in the air. It smells like gasoline and brimstones and fire, Death coming in the forms of flying beasts baring teeth and blood. Legions of them. Fuck, they’re so many of them._

_This shouldn’t be happening. This had been what Superman and the Justice League had left Earth a week ago for: to stop this. And, if_ — _and, if those things are here, does that mean they already los_ —

A clattering noise is heard as a rubble from the ceiling hits the floor somewhere, and he heaves a sigh as the images clear away. A sigh of relief or something else, he’s not quite sure, all he knows is he’s tired and ready to go home.

Once again, he looks up at the sky, blue and serene and without a single cloud in sight, and stares. It’s not an unusual scene, considering it’s summer, and this might actually be one of this year’s more pleasant summer days.

It’s mocking him. He hates it.

The radio sputters suddenly, the static noise hiccuping before resuming its continuous drone, and he decides that, no, he hates that sound more. Crap, what was he thinking about again? … _Right_.

Signal. Ceiling. Higher vantage point. _Higher vantage point_ , right.

He could fly, he thinks for a moment, letting the thought sit. It’s not like he can’t, being Kryptonian and all that, and really, it’s not like— 

A shriek from somewhere has him crouching down, careful that his form couldn’t be seen through the gaps of haphazardly put-together blockade barricading the window across him, and flicks the thought of flight away.

Parademons. _Right._ Stupid plan. Also, how could he have possibly forgotten about the fight that had almost gone wrong with a parademon that happened just a hundred-forty-six minutes ago as he had been making his way to the hotel? It’s actually quite bizarre at how he had forgotten almost dying. Like, how could one forget about the time they died—again? Better yet, how could he forget the presence of the parademons that are literally swarming everywhere?

Oh, yeah, the sore shoulder? Caused by excessive stretching— _not_.

His mouth quirks up, almost, but it flattens to a straight line again.

Yeah, no flying.

“So, that means, new city,” he says, mentally trying to tick off all the places he had been to (—here, Colby, Hays, and another one he’s forgotten the name of—) and all the others he hadn’t gone to yet as he gives up on staking it out in Acity any longer.

Hurriedly, he packs up the radio in a backpack. The static had been cut off by a quick flip of a switch, and he swings the bag over one shoulder. A curse escapes his mouth from when it hits a rather painful spot on his back that feels too … _open_ for comfort. A curse escapes him from the late realization that it hadn’t just been his shoulder that had been hurt, and then a second curse, because, _ow._ That really fucking hurts.

 _God, he hates those ugly bastards._ (He wonders at the things that came through the portals the first time. Parademons? Who knows. They look a lot different from the images he’d seen at the conference call with the Justice League two weeks earlier and from the things he had to fight every single day for the past week, now that he thinks about it actually. Maybe they’re like their evolutions, kinda like in Pokemon? Not one of the cool Pokemon evolutions though, the new look is just uncanny with that monkey/lion mane thing it’s got going on.)

A shadow falls over him, and he scrambles to hide behind a knocked off wall as quietly as possible, laying flat until it passes, carrying with it its growling and the sound of beating wings.

 _Well, speaking of the Devils themselves!_ For a moment, he wants to be amused at the thought that, maybe, he might have superpowers other than superstrength and heat-vision (—after all, he isn’t _just_ Superman—), but the moment passes rather quickly, and amusement dies down to sobriety. 

(No, it’s not foresight. It’s just reality. The parademons are _infesting._ )

Several days ago, it would have been disconcerting for anyone to see a serious Conner. Heck, even he would have had trouble believing the reflection staring back at him as _him_ if its expression had been anything less than a smile. He is, after all, _Superboy_ : the handsome, easygoing Titan, known both for his superpowers and for his charismatic, happy-go-lucky attitude, one aspect more well-known among the public than the other. (From what all the tabloids and gossip sites had been saying, it’s clearly not the prior.)

As it is, the present is _not_ several days ago, and the deep wrinkles lined above his brows are now instinctual. Familiar. Not unlike how they had formed yesterday, the day before, and all the days before that as well—right up to the day the proverbial Final Days had begun.

So, yes, it would have been disconcerting to see him don the look he is currently donning now in any other time in his life, but it would be more worrying if he had the look of pure amusement and act all blase while he’s hiding for his life right now now, wouldn’t it? He couldn't really afford to be reckless during what seems to be the endtimes, because, you know, he would rather be alive, preferably for a long time.

 _God,_ if only his stupid radio could get a damn signal, then he would have been able to contact someone for help.

Another shriek fills the air, and he recognizes it as his time to leave.

—

“Ma, pa, I’m home,” he calls out as he closes the door quietly behind him, the door knob squeaking from years of use. He makes a mental note to oil it later, there should be a can somewhere under the kitchen sink, before dropping the bag on the floor. It collides with the ground in a loud _thud_ , and he winces. It wouldn’t be surprising if the radio wouldn’t work after that.

Hopefully, it’s still intact—or, most of it is, and he could get around just remodifying and fixing it up again. However, it had taken him three days to scrounge up the necessary parts, what with everything either stolen or destroyed in the wreckage of things, and he’s not optimistic about being able to find any with the increase of parademons.

Next city on his list is Goodland, just a few miles nearer than Acity, but he’s not sure a Wayne Enterprise branch is located there, much less a LexCorp-affiliated establishment. He would know, because apparently Luthor thought it to be a great idea to teach him (—demand he memorize—) which buildings and structures to save in case of an attack on the second week of his existence: from the Pyramid of Giza to the White House to the newly-built restaurant somewhere downtown Tokyo that’s funded by Lexcorp, for some odd reason.

(Oh, and also Wayne Enterprises, of any subsidiary and such, was not under his protection, something about being business rivals and “Bruce Wayne kicked me out of a gala once because I stared at him a bit too long, so ha!” (Yeah, the last part isn't real, but it could be. _It could be_ , what with Luthor being all grudge-y and villain-y and stuff. Just mentioning Bruce Wayne’s name is enough for him to sentence you death through glaring. So, yeah, it could be a pitiful reason like being evicted out of a charity event.))

(The places he had scrounged the radio parts from aren’t _really_ random places.)

And, unfortunately, the nearest place where he could find either a Wayne Enterprise building or a LexCorp-owned establishment is at Hays— _had been_ at Hays, because both buildings had blown up. (Parademons plus what looked to be some sort of a villain-groupie war. It _was not_ an easy escape, okay? Blowing up the buildings meant distraction, and distraction meant escape, and escape meant another day to live.) The next one would be at Topeka. It’s not that far from Hays, but Hays isn’t exactly near Smallville either.

He groans, and looks at the backpack on the floor. He might as well check the machine for damages first before he could finish drawing up a complete mental list of things he might not actually need. Conner bends down, but, thinking better of it, decides to just sit on the floor, the bag now pulled on his lap. The zip is broken, kind of, but he tugs on it easy anyway, and he just stares at the machine.

No damages to the top. Good—

And, then it breaks apart when he pulls it out, the pieces clattering on the floor noisily. “Fuck.” He has half a mind to throw it at the wall, but Ma wouldn’t like that, and it certainly wouldn’t help them in their hiding. _“God fucking damn it.”_

“Honey, watch your mouth,” a voice warns, and Conner nearly jumps up, flustered. Ma Kent is at the door to the kitchen, an apron over her, as she dries a plate with a rag. Her eyes are narrowed, and his hands fly to his mouth, clasping it tight.

(Does … Does he actually have foresight?)

“Sorry,” he squeaks. You know, it’s funny, really, because he’s fought so many villains and had been scolded by Batman at least once (— _it was never his fault, Gar made him all do it!_ —), but they’ve got nothing on an angry mother. Even the parademons couldn’t make his heart pump as fast as Ma Kent’s current stare. Conner swallows. “Won’t happen again.”

“It better not,” she chuckles, the sharp look still present, before withdrawing back to the kitchen. He could then hear the clatter of plates and utensils, and a few seconds after that, a short whistle of the kettle. He thinks about just sleeping on the floor then and there (—it wouldn’t be the first time—), but he thinks better of it, and rises up and levitates to follow after Ma Kent instead. He ignores the broken parts of tech adorning the ground.

“Where’s Pa?” he asks when he finds her alone by the stove stirring what looks to be this night’s dinner. It smells familiar, like the spaghetti she had cooked for him months ago, but he’s sure they didn’t have pasta on stock. Well, at least he thought they didn’t? He might need to check up on food supplies later.

“Out in the back,” Ma Kent answers, not taking her eyes off the pot, “Seems like the next-town over had sightings of … _those_ things.” A pause. “He thinks it would be best if he could nail another layer of wood on the windows.”

“Yeah?” There’s a glimmer of amusement in his eyes, he could tell, but, once again, the heaviness of the situation is not lost to them. A cold sensation tingles inside his chest, and he balls his hands into fists.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out, his frustration rolling in waves. In the corner of his eyes, he could see Ma Kent put the ladle down and face him. “It might take a while before I can get you guys outta here.”

“Acity’s a bust, huh?”

“Yeah,” he grits his teeth and screws his eyes shut, “No signal, no nothing. And, now the whole thing’s destroyed. I’m not sure I could fix it up again.” The clock at the far-off wall ticks loudly, the time _5:18 PM._ The numbers remind him of the time spent flying to and fro Acity: a total of six hours and more of walking, running, and flying. Tiring, and time consuming. A one-way trip almost doubles the total time he had spent on _The Tenerife_ trying to catch a signal.

And, that’s _Acity_. He doesn’t know how long travel would be for Goodland, and he most definitely does _not_ want to think about the miles to Topeka.

It takes a _second—two—three,_ before he can find in himself to unclench his jaws. “I’m sorry. If I hadn’t—If I hadn’t lost my communicator, I would have been able to get you guys to safety already.”

Ma Kent sounds distraught over his words, “Oh, honey, it’s not your fault. You couldn’t have anticipated losing it. These things happen all the time. Why, remember when Jon lost Shelby last year?” At the recollection of Pa Kent’s face when he realised he had left their dog at the market, Conner snorts. (It’s not really all that funny, if he thinks about it, but, _hey._ It’s still kinda, sorta comedic.) “It took awhile to find him, but it all worked out in the end. _This,_ ” she motions to the general area of the living room where the ex-radio is with her thumb, “Will all work out in the end.”

Her journey from the stove to where he is by the doorway is slow, and he cocks his head when she stops in front of him. Placing a warm hand on cheek, she smiles, and Conner notices the difference in skin temperature. He leans in to her touch.

“ _And,_ keeping you safe is supposed to be our job, not the other way around.” Her eyes had softened, and, abruptly, he pulls away, leaving her warm hands with his cheek burning from shame _._ “We’re supposed to be the ones who get hurt.”

A hand, now his, goes up to his shoulder, while he straightens his back painfully, now fully aware that she had noticed his injuries. When exactly had she noticed, he didn’t know, but it wasn’t like he had been trying to hide his state—because, _god knows why,_ but it seems he had forgotten about them _again_ (answer: adrenaline). The spots of blood on the otherwise clean floorboards could have also given him away.

He winces. _He’s gotta clean that up_.

“C’mon, Ma, I’m Superboy. It’s my _job_ ,” he jokes, now rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly, and he wonders if Clark had been subjected to this kind of talk before. He wouldn’t really be surprised if it’s a naturally occurring topic in their conversations post-Superman-debut.

“You might be, but in this house, you are Conner, _my son_.”

For a moment, she looks as if she would want to say something else, her lips open and eyebrows furrowed, and he knows what it is about. It’s not hard to grasp the reason when he could feel her stare on his hand and his face (—he had a sinking feeling that there’s a scab there, and, well, _that_ explains why his face is itchy, now doesn’t it?—). She wants to tend to him. A _mother’s duty_ , perhaps. 

But, the look goes away soon enough, and the worry is overshadowed by a brighter expression. Her smile is a bit strained, yes, but she understood him (—the unease in his face; the steely resolve in his eyes not to show discomfort; a teenage boy and his crumbling pride; a teenage superhero and his regrets—), and had let it go. “And, you, _my son,_ reek. You better go wash up before your Pa uses all the warm water.” 

He smirks, crossing his arms over his chest. “Pssh _naw_ , I smell fine!” (He loves them— _he loves them._ )

“ _Conner._ ”

“Okay, fine! Fine,” he accedes, laughing, unable to hold back his mirth, amplified by the love that resonates within him. “I don’t wanna let our visitors be turned off.”

(He swears that had been a joke, because who would _dare_ visit them at a time like this? In a _place_ like this? … Actually, he didn’t really know what the joke was. The sentence had been strung up hastily in a futile attempt at a comedic comeback, and he _had_ winced when the words had flown out of his mouth, comprehending a little too late that it’s only funny inside his tired mind.

Still, it was meant to be a joke. _It was supposed to be a joke._ )

Five minutes later, Conner almost rips the shower curtains off its rings when he feels the tremble of _something_ on the walls and floor. It’s strange and familiar, and— _“Seems like the next-town over had sightings of … those things.”_

Fuck. _Parademons. Ma, Pa. God, no, please!_

His surroundings are a blur as he moves quick: step out of shower, grab towel, open door. A part of him points at the still-running water, but, at this moment in time, he couldn’t care any less. Maybe later, but not now, and he dashes through the hallway, one hand clutched tight on the knot of the towel he had briskly wrapped around his lower body. More to anchor himself than it is actual fear that it might fall off him and he’d have to fight in the nude.

 _There_. A shadow, unnatural and strange, curling and disappearing into the living room, and he narrows his eyes. Taking one parademon on? Doable. But, more than one and possibly at the same time? Risky and—

 _No_. He can do this. _He can take them on._ He can do thi—

—he knocks right into her, and they’re left sprawling on the ground.

“Hey,” Raven greets breathlessly from beneath him as he braces himself up with his forearms to look at her in disbelief.

“Hey, yourself...”

(One of these days, he really has to ask Luthor if he’s some kind of clairvoyant with future vision and foresight.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Acity = A City (fictional)


	3. Chapter 3

“I’m sorry,” she repeats, and he has to squash down the growing want to smile at her fumbling and fidgeting (—Raven, calm and collected and cool-headed Raven, _antsy?_ Is the world ending or something—), focusing instead on folding the clothes in front of him. It’s not a neat stack and there are multiple creases on that one particular shirt that probably shouldn’t have them, but, _hey_ , it’s one of his best folding works. When he looks up from the baby blue sweater half-way folded on his lap to take a quick glance on the total of his handiwork, he doesn’t feel half-bad. Actually, he’s quite proud. (It usually takes him a longer amount of time to even do ten, and he’s sure that whatever number of clothes he had finished is a lot more than ten.)

Conner chuckles, the sound reverberating through his room. “It’s okay,” he says for what seems to be the fifth time. One—two fold, a _aaa_ nd done. He sets the sweater on top of the pile, smoothing down a crease while doing so. There’s the smell of lemon permeating in the air— _homey_. Detergent. He puts that on his list for “things to look for next time.” Without thinking, his hand reaches for the laundry basket, but is met only by a handful of air. Ah. He’s done.

Without anything to keep him busy, Conner finally turns to look at her clearly and tries not to let his emotions leak through his horrendously set-up mental barriers. (Conner can do a lot of things, but silencing his obnoxiously loud emotions is not one of them.) She’s … _thinner_ than he remembers, taking notice of the sharpness in her jaws that had been absent the last time he had seen her a week ago. Not gaunt or overtly thin, but enough to look like she hasn’t eaten for a few days. A frown tugs on the expression of his face before he knows it, and suddenly she straightens, eyebrows twitching.

 _Oops_. 

He swallows, squashing down the pity (—she doesn’t need _pity_ —) escaping him, before returning back to the merry-go round that is their conversation. “It’s okay. You didn’t mean to surprise us.” Conner shrugs.

There’s a stray thread on his pants, and he curls it tight around one finger. In a room below them somewhere, a mother, father and son are talking, topics and words Conner could only imagine. His heart squeezes, but he brushes off the pang. It’s not that he can’t join them, it’s just that—

He flinches at the sudden sting of pain in his finger, and he lets go of the too-tightly wounded thread before he could accidentally cut off his finger from his unchecked strength.

“Conner?” Raven asks from her seat, most likely curious at his wincing. And, probably his long pause. He smiles at her weakly.

“I’m fine.” (At least, this seems to have distracted her from starting another round of apologies. He isn’t even really sure _what_ she had been apologising for, if it even is about her and Clark dropping by without a warning and scaring the shit out of him.)

If anyone had told Conner a week ago that Raven of the Teen Titans would be sitting across him on his chair while he folds his laundry in _his bedroom_ , he would have laughed at their faces, because as interesting as the idea would have been, it’s not believable. _Impossible_ even. One, because she’s _Raven_ , and two, because he’s _Conner_. (He’s got a type, and Raven doesn’t exactly fit the bill.)

But, then there she is, sitting awkwardly with her hands placed atop her knees as she looks at him with a kind of inquisitive stare that’s so unlike her naturally deadpan face, barefoot and in her civvies. _In his bedroom_. It’s—It’s actually kind of nice, and if it were another time, he would gladly explore the pleasant feeling fluttering in his gut as he stares at Raven. 

You know, _if it were another time._

He exhales through his nose. “Rae, why’d you come here?” Conner asks as he rubs the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger at the beginning of a headache. The smile on his face hasn’t disappeared despite the numb pounding at the back of his head, but the pull of it does feel awfully strained against his cheeks. Painful.

There’s a hesitancy in the way her mouth moves to answer, and it dawns on him that she might have done the whole explanation of the mystery of her presence in Smallville to the older Kents while he had gone on to continue with his interrupted shower (after Ma Kent had dragged him off of Raven, horrified that he had been practically _naked_ on top of her). The tips of his ears flush with heat at the memory, but he ignores it. “Clark needed to make sure you three were safe,” she replies, hands still placed on her knees. Awkward. _Cute_. “And, he needed a ride.”

“Oh.” _Wait._ “When did Clark come back to Earth exactly?”

Something in her eyes darken at the inquiry, and she looks so tired suddenly. Thinner, if that were possible. “The same evening all hell broke loose,” Raven answers. Her knees knocking against each other as she shifts in the chair, shoulders sagging as she pitches forward slightly. “Seems that Darkseid had wanted Superman to see the new earth as soon as possible.”

Darkseid.

A random thought, sharp and unrelenting, goads him. To what, he doesn’t know, but he has already risen to a stand, mattress whining at the shifting of weight, before he could even come up with an answer to what exactly his thoughts are goading him _to_. 

_(Speed. It isn’t the only thing needed to be able to fight, but— He grunts, pain blossoming where it had hit him. He hits the ground hard, choking on his own breath, before he flies off to strike back. The metal chest crumbles upon contact. Green liquid oozes out and splatters him on the face. It tastes disgusting. He grimaces, but there’s no time no time no time for unnecessary reactions and there’s no time—no time—no— Conner looks down._

_His breath stops._

_Speed. Just having speed isn’t enough in a fight, but if it’s to survive, it should be enough. Speed_ should have been _enough_. _It should’ve been. But, Wally is slow. Too slow, and now he’s dead, and no no no no—)_

“... Conner?” Raven calls, but he can’t hear her. No _no_ he can’t _he can’t—_

( _A cry—grief-stricken—_ angry _—echoes in the background. Nightwing? Conner turns to see if he needs any help, but another one comes up, baring its ugly teeth at him. He blasts, twin heat lasers dealing what seems to be enough damage. It has to be—_ should _be. And, Conner turns once more to see—_

_But, he isn’t ready. He isn’t, and oh god. Oh no._

_She’s always pretty, her laughter akin to that of sunshine and gentle clouds, the fiery orange of her hair like sunsets and warm hugs, and it’s horrifying. She’s still pretty, even as she’s sprawled across the pavement with her stomach cut open, and he wants to vomit, but no he can’t there’s still so much so many of them there are legions and fuc—_ )

_“Conner.”_

“Hmm?” He blinks, the vivid imagery now pushed back to the recesses of his mind. 

There’s something on his arm, and he watches her already pale knuckles turn paler as she continues to tighten her grip on him. (She’s warm, he realises somewhat in his state of mental weariness. Conner always thought she’d be cold. _Guess not_.) “You were spacing out,” she furrows her eyebrows as she lets her hand drop to her side, “Are you okay?”

 _Shit_. He’s been doing that a lot, he notices. Not good. Conner shakes his head, the movement giving him the needed rush to completely awaken him. “I’m fine,” the grin comes easier than expected. “Was just thinking about the Kryptonite inside Clark.”

He’s lying, but now the thought is stuck in his head and suddenly there are phantom things pulling and ripping inside him, coursing through his veins and coating his bones. _Painful._ Conner shudders once, before he reminds himself that it’s just his imagination. He didn’t go through what Clark had undergone while in Darkseid’s care. He doesn’t have foreign things inside him. _He isn’t Clark._

“Mm,” she hums, the sound barely sounding like she believes him. “I tried taking it out once. Didn’t go as planned.” Her shoulders rise and fall in a shrug, and then, “Want me to heal you?”

The question makes him straighten his slowly dropping posture, and he hisses at the sudden spike of pain travelling the length of the long cut on his back from the action. “No,” he tells her instinctively, pushing the word through gritted teeth with a practised, if not forced, smile. But, she’s patient and understanding, and he knows he’s in serious need of help (—his regeneration is not working as fast as it should be for fuck’s sake—), so he nods in resignation and sits back down on mattress. “Please.”

She climbs on top of his bed, shuffling to the spot behind him. The springs squeak under them as she shifts. “I’ll need you to take your shirt off. I have to see the full extent or I might heal something different,” Raven tells him, after a moment’s hesitancy.

He acquiesces, tugging off his shirt and letting it fall on the ground. (This is absolutely _not_ the time for his heart to go pitter- _fucking_ -patter.)

Though the sentiment had already been established, he couldn’t get the wondering and curious thoughts of _“she’s warm”_ out of his head as the pads of her fingers skim over his skin. Their roaming is soft and careful, and he doesn’t give in to the want to lean into her touch. “So.” His voice comes out hoarse, and he coughs. “A week?”

“Hold that thought.” The bandage he had hastily wrapped around him comes loose as she unwinds it, letting it fall to his side. Conner tries not to grimace when he notices the specks of blood dotting the white strips of fabric when he glances at them in his periphery. She works silently, pulling off the bandages, until his whole top is bare and she gives a sound of satisfaction. His breath hitches when she places both of her hands on his back, and he bites the inside of his cheeks to stop his emotions going awry. 

(Because, even if she isn’t exactly his type, Raven isn’t not attractive. And, _by days_ , is she very pretty.)

_“By the powers of Azarath, I beseech you. Azarath. Metrion. Zinthos._ ”

There’s a tingling whirring on his back, blue and purple magic lighting patches on his skin. The sensation of his body repairing itself back together is odd. It’s unlike his natural regeneration that subtly and slowly works itself on his injuries. Sure, he’s aware of it but it’s like how one is aware of their own breathing—only if you think about it.

Now, _this?_ This is just plain weird. He could _feel_ the flesh and muscle thread itself back together, the regrowth of all the tissues he had lost and is in need of, down to the minutest detail. It doesn’t hurt him, but it’s not exactly what he’d call comfortable as well. 

Of all the total one year he had been a Titan, he had never really needed Raven to heal him, even after the fights that had turned too ugly. He’d either have injuries that don’t warrant her attention as much as the rest of the Titans or they were super serious wounds but his regeneration had already kicked in and all he’d need would be a quick patch-me-up, conducted usually by _Damien_ , of all people.

He couldn’t really wrap the experience of Raven healing him in one simple word other than odd and strange and— Okay, fine, he could wrap it in one word but that’s beside the point (and he had been trying to emphasise). It’s just … plain _weird_.

The thrum of power dissipates from his body, and her hands are gone from him, signalling that she’s done. His shoulders sag in relief. Behind him, he feels the surprising dip of her emotions push against him, and he swivels around to face her, noting the sweat dotting her forehead.

She‘s wincing, closing her eyes in an attempt to—what? Shut out— _oh_ . Shut out the pain. Oh, _oh_. Mortified that he had remembered the cost of her healing powers too late, he reaches for her, offering her his arm to either hold for comfort or squeeze in case the phantom aches get a bit rough (—he doesn’t really know how her powers work, if it amplifies the prior pain or not, but if it does, he doesn’t really mind if she even bites his arm from it. It’s the least he could do, really—). Surprise is lined in her eyes at the action, but she takes it anyway, gripping it tightly for a few seconds as she waits for the pain to ebb away. Once it does, she pushes his arm back to him with a thanks.

“Where were we?” Raven asks, referring to the topic she’d told him to hold, after a considerable (not really, it had just been an awkward minute) amount of time had passed.

“It took Clark a week to come to Smallville?” Conner offers, tapping his chin.

“Right. We had to shut down as many communication facilities as possible. Towers, satellites, all of it. As much as we could infiltrate. One of the main reasons why it took Clark so long to check on you. Another is trying to look for surviving heroes and a new base.”

Huh. So, that’s why he couldn’t get a damn signal anywhere. (Also, Clark meeting up with the other heroes? Must have been a fun time.)

“Why?”

This time, it took her a lot longer to answer, and so he takes this time to retrieve his shirt from the floor. He doesn’t need to look at her to see her gnawing her bottom lip in thought, eyes squinted in a thoughtful expression. “Billy theorised that Cyborg got hacked and that’s how Darkseid won.”

He doesn’t inquire who exactly this “Billy” is, but he does raise questions pertaining to the possibility of someone invading Cyborg. “He’s human.”

“Yes, but he also has parts of machinery stuck to him,” Raven reminds him. “Apparently, they were originally made for and _by_ Darkseid. Lois feared that he might have already planted eyes and ears everywhere with the same tech, and that’s why we had to cut off all means of communication. In case any more plans get leaked. We’re still figuring out how to make it secure before starting them all back up.”

 _Makes sense_. And, also _—_ “Lois?” he asks, perking up at the name of Clark’s wife, both glad to hear she’s safe and from curiosity.

“No one’s saying anything, but everyone probably agrees that it’d be better to have Lois lead instead of her husband.”

“I bet,” Conner smirks. “No one would probably look to Clark for advice anytime soon, if ever.”

She chuckles drily at that, a staccato laugh that makes his fingers curl on his shirt, because—because it’s really pretty and really Raven, but there’s a note of _something else_ just beneath it that makes her sound so much older than she really is. The lapse of silence that follows is terse, and his eyes trace the hollow of her neck as she swallows. Conner tears his gaze away from her, and in the back of his mind, he wonders why no one’s called them for dinner yet.

Then: “Do you hate him?”

He finally pulls his shirt on (—it’s more for his hands to do something than anything else, really—), and asks, “Who?” Not that he’d needed to ask her, really.

“Clark.” Not that it needed to be said, really.

The breath he takes in is long and deep, his chest heaving as he lets himself fall on the bed entirely to stare at the ceiling. A soft squeak stumbles out of her lips at his sudden movement as she scrambles to move out of his way, pulling her legs together so he doesn’t accidentally hit them. The reaction is so unlike her that it makes the uncharacteristic fumbling and fidgeting at the beginning look like something Raven would have done, and it makes his gut clench in so many ways that he’s not sure if that’s normal or if it’s even safe for his stomach to flip-flop like that.

But, that’s not something he needs to think about right now, and he exhales. “I don’t really know,” Conner confesses, not taking his sight away from the fading white paint of the ceiling. “On one hand, I blame Superman for all the things he caused. It’s his fault everyone died and everything turned to shit. But, on the other hand, Clark is … _family_ . And, some part of me, wants to hate him. But, I don’t—I don’t really know _how_ to hate family.”

He doesn’t hate Luthor, not even after all the things he’d done to the world, to Metropolis—to _him_. He doesn’t hate Luthor, the same way he doesn’t hate Clark—because, Conner doesn’t know _how to_.

(And, because, at the end of the day, despite everything, Clark is still his dad. And, _god_ , isn’t it funny? Having (two, because someone said one isn’t enough) father issues is probably, like, a must in the superhero criteria, because it’s just fucking hilarious how a lot of them has it.)

“What about you?” Conner returns the question when Raven follows suit and lays down beside him (—that’s _so_ not like Raven—). He turns around to his side to face her, and he observes the falling and rising rhythm of her chest as she breathes in and then out. The sound is calming, and he’s suddenly reminded of the fatigue of his body: the journey to that blasted city, the fight with the parademons, and all else that happened in between. He’s _exhausted_ , and the yawn that escapes him further proves it.

Conner doesn’t want to be rude, but she’s warm and quiet and—and his eyes are blurry and he’s really _really_ just so tired, so maybe it’s okay. Her face is unreadable as he takes one last look at her through his lashes, but there’s the unmistakable quirk of her eyebrow that tells him she _knows_ and _it’s fine_. (How he’d managed to get that from a single lifted eyebrow he doesn’t know, but who cares.)

So, he lets sleep take him, letting his eyelids fall once and—Conner’s gone.

(He doesn’t open his eyes when he hears her whisper out, _“He saved my life._ ”)

(It’s—It’s not something he’s supposed to hear. He knows that much.)

\--


	4. Chapter 4

The wall he has his back on is cool, giving him at least a bit of relief from the really high temperature of afternoon, and he drums his fingers along the side of his thigh. She’s late, and he looks at his watch on the off-chance that he might just be early. ... Nope, she’s just running super-duper late.

With a huff, he brushes his hair away from his eyes, frowning at how it had stuck on his face rather stubbornly from the sweat. _Damn this blistering heat!_ The thought echoes in his mind loudly, but it does not do justice to his current overwhelming hate of the sunny season.

Do you have _any_ idea how gross it feels like to be in neoprene— _that’s almost sixty percent black, by the way_ —in sweltering forty-something degrees Celsius, dirty and sweaty? Well, hours earlier, he didn’t as well, and Conner would have wanted it to have stayed that way.

Ugh. This is _so much worse_ than that time he’d been flung to the sewers and he came out drenched and smelling like something nasty. He shudders.

Actually, no, scratch that. It’s not anywhere near as disgusting as that (—he couldn’t get the stink out of him for _days_ —). Still, him sweating buckets in a very form-fitting suit is not a pleasant experience, and he tugs on his collar uselessly, grimacing when it snaps back to his skin with a _slap_.

The crunch of her boots signals her presence, and he breathes out a sigh when he finally spots her a few meters away. “Raven,” Conner greets half-relieved and half-exasperated, and he crosses his arms out in front of him. With his eyes narrowed, he asks, “What took you so long?”

Despite her own face shining with sweat, there doesn’t seem to be any evidence that she had encountered a parademon while on her own, and his glare softens a little after he made extra- _extra_ sure that she hadn’t sustained any injuries from her side of the raiding. 

“I never knew you were my mother,” she retaliates as she strides towards him, her cloak swooshing quietly behind her as a large bulky bag encased in dark energy floats next to her. “And, besides, it’s just two minutes after rendezvous.”

 _Wait, how the fuck did you know? You don’t even have a watch,_ are the words he quite literally bites back, his teeth painfully sinking into his tongue, because he knows that if it had been said, it wouldn’t be accusatory. Rather, it would’ve shown how awestruck he is at her knowing the time without needing to glance at a clock, and that isn’t good. He’s supposed to be irritated at her tardiness, _damn it_.

Of course, not that he’d even need to tell her any of that. She’s an empath, and Conner wrinkles his nose at her knowing smirk. _Unfair._

Resigning that he’s never really going to have the opportunity to berate her with how quickly his worry is dying down, he pinches the bridge of his nose before pushing himself off the wall. He crouches down to take the two bags from the ground and sling them over either shoulder, before nodding at her. “Let’s go home.”

Dark energy swallows both of them whole—and then they’re gone.

\--

He catches himself before he falls forward, his breath strangled in his throat as the last vestiges of her power fade into nothing. “You don’t look so good,” she tells him as she lowers herself to the ground. He doesn’t need her to draw her hood down to know that the expression underneath the shadows are more of amusement than it is worry. _Jerk._

“I’ll have you know that I _always_ look good,” Conner responds after he’s sure the world had stopped spinning and that the floor won’t give way if he moved too fast. “Even when I look like I’m going to puke.”

“You have a weird understanding of the word “good,”did you know that?,” is what she says, and he sticks his tongue out at her. It’s admittedly an immature response on his part (—not that the entirety of their exchange isn’t—), but he isn’t eighteen yet, so _what the heck_. It’s not like it’s going to hurt him—

Something hits him in the face (— _ow_ —), and he brushes it off him, grumbling under his breath all the while doing so. It lands on the floor without making the least bit of sound, and he glares at the undisturbed straight line of her mouth, looking as though she hadn’t just whacked a throw pillow at him with her magic.

He wants to say _“childish”_ , but that’d be a pot calling the kettle black moment and he doesn’t want to chance her calling him out on it, so he merely tuts and rolls his eyes at her.

(And, it’s not like he doesn’t like the way her eyes shone in humour when he had stared at her nonplussed, despite the darkness that clung to her pale face.)

They’re in the middle of the Kent household living room now, a welcome setting compared to the ruined streets of Goodland they’d previously been at, and he wonders, almost curiously, if this had been the exact same spot she and Clark had teleported to two nights ago. Conner doesn’t ask though, because as much as it had piqued his interest, it’s not _that_ interesting of a topic.

“We’re back!” he finally calls out, his voice bouncing off the walls, and he tugs on the straps of his bags, shifting them higher along his back. Beside him, Raven waves a hand, chanting her mantra underneath her breath. The pull of her power envelops the air again, and Conner watches as her leotard and cloak turns into her jacket and skirt in a quick flash of white.

He’d seen her powers do that before, but his amazement hasn’t diminished at all. (Sure, he’s got his own Conner-to-Superboy transformation, but it’s literally just him tearing off his shirt and probably discarding it behind him. It’s not really a creative costume change, but it’s kinda like a Supe trademark, so _of course_ , he has to do it.)

(And, also, because, y’know, he doesn’t have the whole magic thing backing him up.)

Conner gives her a small smile once she’s done, and she blinks in return, small wrinkles lining just above her slightly raised brows. 

It’s Clark that meets them there, and Conner stops himself from taking a step back from him when the green of his eyes flicker from the fluorescent light above. (It’s okay— _he’s okay_ . Conner is fine, and he isn’t Clark. Conner doesn’t have Kryptonite in his veins—he _doesn’t_.) Conner coughs instead. “Glad you guys got here safely,” the older Kryptonian says with as much grace as a drunken bear’s—which is to say, not graceful. _At all_. (And, Conner would know. He’d seen a documentary about it once, and it had been fucking hilarious.)

Still, Conner understands the clumsiness of his greeting. What _do_ you say to someone who had returned from risking their asses going out into the outside world that’s on the verge of destruction—in which _you_ had caused? Conner wouldn’t know as well, and his sarcastic smile doesn’t break when Raven had nudged him with her elbow. The look she sends him isn’t a warning, but it’s not _not_ a warning as well. 

(It’s the softness that reminds him of the thing he shouldn’t pry: _“He saved my life,”_ and he clenches his jaws. It’s not selfishness, he tries to tell himself, it’s _forgiveness_ , and he—)

She nudges him again, and he finally lets the sarcasm leave him. “Glad to be back.”

(He doesn’t understand her completely, but he really can’t hate Clark, so he lets it go.)

\--

After placing the last item on the shelf, he pushes the cupboard door closed with a _click,_ and he sighs in disappointment. He had wished they’d gotten everything, but he guesses that he should’ve at least expected this would happen, considering the current circumstances. Mentally, he ticks off the things that they’d … taken (— _looted_ —they looted, but using that term makes him feel guilty so he uses the next best related synonym he could think of—) from the shops and malls back in Goodland.

Canned goods? Check. Gasoline for the generator? Check. Batteries? Check. First aid kit( _s_ , because only god knows how many of them he'd already gone through for the past few days)? Check.

The list goes on for a while longer, finishing with him running his tongue along the back of his teeth when he realises they’ve missed at least several objects. But, oh well, at least, the things that they weren’t able to find aren’t ones they couldn’t exactly live without. 

(And, if anything, the bags they had hauled in had been filled to the point of it being virtually impossible to stuff another object in any one of them, so it wasn’t all that bad of a trip.)

“I’m really sorry you had to tag along with Conner,” he hears Ma Kent apologise over the sound of water boiling, and he tries not to snicker when he looks at Raven and notices her determined expression as she pares a carrot with a peeler.

It’s endearing, actually, with the way her tongue pokes out of her mouth as she concentrates, hair pulled back in some kind of attempted bun— _cute_ —but it’s the condition of the vegetable currently in her hand that gets him cracking up.

Conner shuts up when Ma Kent glares at him.

“It’s okay, Mrs Kent,” she reassures, but the sharpness in her smile tells him that she isn’t referring to him laughing at her peeling the carrot while trying to retain most of its carrot-shape (—because, _what the fuck,_ that ain’t a carrot anymore—). “Someone has to be there to bail him out in tough situations anyway.”

“That _is_ true. Conner does have a knack of getting into trouble,” Ma Kent nods, before, she asks, wide-eyed, “He didn’t give you any trouble, did he?”

“No, he didn’t,” Raven shakes her head, and he watches as more strands spill out of the hair tie, falling to the side of her cheeks softly. “Surprisingly.”

“That’s a relief.”

He throws his hands in the air and sighs loudly, exasperated that they’re really just talking about him in that way— _in front of him_. If he could roll his eyes to his skull, he would’ve done it by now, but seeing as he can’t, he makes do with just a regular eye roll. “I’m _your_ son, Ma,” he points at himself. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“Yes, but you have to admit, you don’t exactly know how to be careful.”

This time, Conner doesn’t bother speaking up. Not out of begrudging admittance, _hell no_ (even if he does know it to be true), but out of a sudden wave of pure contentment.

It’s been three days since Clark and Raven had shown up to the Kent home, and it had surprised him how easy he had adapted to having the two new presences in the house. Of course, there had been the time he had almost tackled Clark out of a window (—it’s ridiculous how his shadow is just … _huge and non-human-like_ —), but other than that, it’s as if this is how it has always been.

Clark’s familiarity is predictable. Clark is a Kent, and he had spent nights with them before—sometimes with Lois, oftentimes just him. Conner liked it when Lois came to visit, and he’s pretty sure he’s not alone with the sentiment, remembering when Clark would call about sleeping over in Smallville and the only thing Ma and Pa would inquire about is if Lois would join him.

But, Raven is—Raven is strange, and he doesn’t know what to think of the easiness that came with her presence (—after they had gone through the initial awkwardness of finding themselves waking up in his room on the first day, of course, because _fucking hell_ , was that an awkward morning—). Sure, he could chalk it up to time spent living with her for the past few months in the Tower, but it hadn’t been this nice—it hadn’t been this _pleasant_ , and he fans himself with a hand when a sudden heat invades his face.

He fucking hates summer right now, and he wipes his sweaty palms on his shirt when the warmth in his face recedes, a thankfully loose tee he had changed into when Clark had shooed them off to cool down before starting their inventory-sorting. (It had taken him a considerable amount of time to wrestle out of his suit without tearing it into small pieces, and he had been _this_ close to asking someone to yank him off it.)

Nevertheless, it’s still a fucking nice day, and he prints this into his memory: his mother and his friend poking fun of him in the kitchen while a few scattered lines of sunlight filtering through the gaps of the boarded windows dances on their skin.

And he stays that way, standing near the cupboards, eyes trained at them as they continue on to preparing for dinner—and, then, suddenly they’re done, and Ma Kent tells Raven she’s thankful for the help and Raven is just fidgeting and fumbling and smiling and it’s quite fascinating how she’s so unbelievably shy around Ma Kent and— _oh_. Conner is staring. For an awful long time.

Heat creeps up to his ears again, and he curses. _Fucking summer._

\--

Dinner, usually a noisy affair in the Kent household, is just that— _noisy_ (—but not too much, because, parademons, probably—), and he suppresses the grin that’s currently trying to break his poker-face as he picks at the uneven blocks of potatoes. Obviously Raven’s handiwork, and Conner shoves a forkful of it into his mouth to stop snickering. She’s glaring daggers at him, but he just pretends she isn’t, because it’s a hell lot funnier that way.

The buzz of amicable chatter and laughter wafts around them, crackling with energy that he hasn’t seen in a while. Topics range from “how’s Lois” to “did you hear that Mark had finally fessed up to June—about time, too”, and he raises his glass of water to his mouth, amused at it all.

“It took him _this_ long? You would have thought that being together for so many years, he would have told her about it already.”

“Oh, like _you_ have any say on that, son.”

This is fine, and Conner sips his water. 

But, something shifts, and Clark’s eyes darken as he sets his utensils down.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?” the oldest superhero asks, and Conner almost chokes, water dribbling down the sides of his mouth. A quiet settles all around. Quickly, before he crushes the glass in his tightening grip, he sets it down to his side before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand roughly.

There’s a tenseness in the air that makes his skin prickle, and he runs his tongue over his bottom lip. It’s dry and chapped, and he forces his breathing to quieten down.

An emotion flashes across Clark’s face: desperation—and then, resignation, and Conner has to swallow. “There’s a lot of space back in Metropolis for all three of you.”

“Clark, honey,” is what Ma Kent begins to say, with all the gentleness in the world. It’s almost scathing to hear, cutting deep into Conner’s chest as he is reminded, once again, what their answer would be.

A foot to his right nudges his, and he moves his gaze towards Raven—also, to his right. “I think I heard something at the back. Wanna come check it out?” she asks, loud enough for all of them to hear, but soft enough that it does not completely distract the older Kents from their own conversation.

It’s a blatant lie, but he nods anyway, taking a fleeting glance at the dinner table and its occupants, before following her out. He had thrown a halfhearted, “be back in a bit,” but he knows that it hadn’t really reached their ears. (Conner isn’t hurt, not really, but it does sting a little bit, he supposes.)

The door closes behind with a soft _bang_.

\--

Old wooden floorboards creak and groan as they walk along the porch, and he smiles at the too-large slippers she’d been given to use. It slaps against the heels of her feet with each step she takes, and it’s just so _ridiculous_. ( _All_ of this is ridiculous, and _shit_ , this heat must be messing with his brain, because her trudging slowly in an effort to stop the slippers from slipping is just _ridiculously adorable_.)

“Thanks, by the way,” he tells her, “For going with me. I wouldn’t have been able to take half the things we need and finish so quick if it weren’t for you.” 

Raven hums, cocking her head to the side, and she stops before the porch fence, letting her “I heard something” facade fall apart. “Your family is kind, and,” she pauses to give him a meaningful look that makes his stomach contract, “you’re not coming with us. Helping you stockpile is the least I could do.”

The sound at the back of his throat is unintelligible, but it’s not like they both needed him to say words to express the thoughts flitting in his head.

(Clark had asked Ma and Pa Kent, the first night they came: “Come with us, please. You’ll be safe there,” because they were never really meant to stay. Conner understands, because, though he loves this simple farmhouse in this simple town, Conner never really meant to stay here either. Conner never really meant for _all of them_ to stay here.

(But, Ma and Pa had said no, and he had stared, so shocked as they recounted the conversation in the morning. Something about how it would be unfair to everyone else, how them being there would only be a burden to the resistance—and, “We’re needed here, son. There are still people in Smallville, and we want to help them as much as we can.”

(Conner, as thankful as he is for all the things they had taught him, had wished— _still_ wishes that they would be selfish instead. He wishes they could be as selfish as Luthor at that moment. He wishes they could be someone else, not Martha and Jonathan _Kent_ , but just Martha and Jonathan, with self-preservation in the forefront of their mind.

(But, he knows how futile it is to wish they’d change their mind, because Ma and Pa are stubborn, and so he had nodded his head and told them he’ll stay, saying he doesn’t mind one bit, even though all of them knew he wasn’t being honest and— _and he had spent days trying to find a damn signal—_ and they _let_ him, not to be saved but it was to _save him—it was to—_ )

(Shit.)

( _T_ _his isn’t the time for this._ )

“I still can’t believe you’d be one for tardiness,” Conner jokes, half-grinning, in an attempt to shatter the heavy silence that had fallen over them from his roaring stream of thoughts. He knows she can hear his tumultuous emotions raging, and her hesitation only confirms it. He doesn’t blame her though. It must be too much.

“And, I never thought you were such a stickler for time.”

“When you’re a Kent, you take time seriously,” Conner chuckles, before diverting his attention to the fields. “Goodland looked good, don’t you think?” And, yeah, so maybe he doesn’t really understand the word “good” at all. Goodland was one of the cities that have been directly attacked by the paradooms— _“oh god,_ I have _brothers?”_ —so, of course the damage would be great.

 _Good_ his ass. It looked downright terrible.

But, she takes it in stride anyway, “It’s definitely a lot better than Metropolis right now.” 

And, _ah._ Metropolis. “I can’t believe you’re leaving later,” he whispers— _whispers?_ It takes him a moment to recognise the thing lining the insides of his throat, and _oh._ It’s loneliness, isn’t it? “They’re going to miss you, you know.”

Not _“we”_ , but he doesn’t need to tell her that. With her powers, she doesn’t really need him to. (And, besides, it’s embarrassing.)

“I’ll miss them too.”

Pause, and then a thought: “Know what I’ll miss? I’m going to miss seeing you on my bed.” 

“I never thought you liked sleeping on the couch so much,” she deadpans after a beat, but there’s a tug on the corner of her mouth—and _see?_ Easy. It’s just so easy being with her that it feels surreal (—because she’s warm and comforting and all sorts of things—and she _knows—_ ), and he places his elbows on top of the porch fence, scrunching his eyes with the laughter that had started to bubble inside him.

“You don’t know what I like.”

“Apparently, you don’t as well.”

Conner swears this is how it’s supposed to be like: just two friends hanging out in this sweltering summer evening, watching the sun begin its slow descent while talking about stupid nothings. (It makes him think that the world isn’t totally on the verge of destruction.)

And, that’s what they do for the rest of the evening—until Pa Kent opens the door and beckons them to come inside hours later.

\--

Because Ma Kent is insistent that they absolutely _cannot_ go back now (“It’s eight-thirty, Clark. It’s a little late to go out … teleporting right now.”), they don’t leave until sunrise the next day, and he lets himself stare at the spot where Raven and Clark had been moments earlier, arm half-raised from the single wave he had bid them with. He lets it drop soundlessly to his side as he takes in a deep breath through his nose. It’s colder, suddenly, which is just confusing (—hello, _summer?_ —), but he starts rubbing the sides of his arms all the same.

“Raven’s a nice girl,” a warm voice behind him comments once the howl of magic has completely faded away.

“She really is, isn’t she?” Conner replies without a single thought (because why think when you already know it to be true?).

When he turns around to start walking towards the couch (—because, it’s still so early in the morning, and he’s not really fond of waking up early—), he catches the smile on Ma Kent’s face and the funny gleam in her eyes, and it takes him a second before the insinuation of her expression sinks in. Horror floods him while his face heats up.

“ _No,_ ” he stresses, almost choking on that single word, and he clenches his hands on the fabric of his pants. “I don’t—I don’t _like her_.”

Oh, _god_ , this is so embarrassing, and he runs his fingers through his hair in an attempt to ground himself before he loses his composure and says something that might give her more of a reason to think he’s lying. (Sure, he thinks she’s cute when she's all awkward around his parents and, _fine_ , her clumsily trying to help out in the kitchen is quite frankly adorable, but that doesn’t mean he likes her- _likes her_. It’s just … _physical attraction_ , and that’s not the same as what Ma Kent is implying with the knowing quirk of her mouth.)

Again, he tries, “I don’t like Raven like that.” His voice didn’t tremble, so that’s a good sign, and Conner lets himself smile when he remembers, though a tad late, of one additional fact, “And, besides, Raven likes someone else.”

(Huh. How _is_ the bird brain doing anyway?)

\--


	5. Chapter 5

“You have to tell him, mate,” Constantine voices out beside him, and Conner scrunches his nose at the permeating cigarette smell that’s coming off him. Has he been smoking nonstop for the scent to stick to him permanently or is his nose just sensitive all of a sudden? Who knows really.

“What do you mean? I told him everything he needs to know,” Conner responds after deeming it useless to try and wave off the stench, hanging his head between his shoulders as he continues staring at his feet, noting with mild interest at the dirt clinging to the neoprene. 

“You and I both know that’s bollocks.” There’s exasperation in his voice, and Conner tuts. “Look, you—you have to tell the baby bat.”

“I know.”

“Knowing is a lot different than _doing_.”

At the corner of his eyes, he sees worn-down oxfords approach him slowly, the clacking of heels so out of sync with Etrigan’s (— _ha,_ finally gotten his name right—) snoring. “I know, _I know_ ,” he says through gritted teeth, annoyance bubbling inside him at the sentence. Yeah, _okay_ , he knows he’ll have to tell Damian soon, but this isn’t the time— _it would never be the time_ —shit. Conner counts— _one—two—three_ , and he finally regains enough clearness of mind to realise that storming out of the room is childish. After all, what Constantine said is only logical. It wouldn’t be fair to Damian if he wouldn’t know. He shakes his head. “I’ll tell him. Just— Just not _now_.”

There’s a pregnant pause, and Constantine’s mental preparation is so _palpable,_ if that even makes a lick of sense, that Conner cannot help but lift his head up to watch him mull over his thoughts, furrowing his eyebrows and deepening the wrinkles of his face. _Oh._ Is he thinking about words to say to him? Conner almost laughs, because just the idea of Constantine thinking before talking is hilarious. (It makes him look constipated.)

A second goes by, and it seems Constantine is done contemplating his next choice of words from the looks of his mouth twitching. He snaps his fingers victoriously, but before he could tell him whatever it is he’s wanting to tell, a giant half-eaten chicken leg hits the wall behind them before falling down to the ground unceremoniously.

 _Ugh_. Conner grimaces, more at the unappetising _splat_ sound that came out of it than the actual object laying just inches away from his foot. 

But, then again, it’s funny, especially when this action had prompted Constantine to march right up to Etrigan and start berating him on his priorities. (“A _finger snap_ and you go throwing things, but an assassin is attacking you and you don’t even bat an eyelid? _Bloody hell_ , man!”) Now a hand under his cheek and elbow on his lap, he watches at the magician’s attempt on keeping his temperament from flying at the apathetic smile of the large fellow—and, failing.

On the cot to the right of Etrigan, Clark taps on his watch, desperation and anxiety in his eyes that isn’t lost to Conner, despite looking nothing like the expressive baby blue eyes Superman and Clark Kent are known to have. Even with him seeing them practically every day for two years now, he still can’t help wincing at the sight of the unholy black and green. At least, he doesn’t hyperventilate as often as he used to though, so there’s that.

He could hear Lois’ voice underneath all the hubbub, but whatever message she’s saying is indiscernible to him. The watch’s speaker isn’t all that loud in the first place, and adding in the crackling static caused by the wavering signal, needless to say it’d be rather difficult for _anyone_ to understand her. Still, it’s comforting to hear her—that is, until he doesn’t and Clark gives out a frustrated groan. Conner comes to a realisation that the call had ended abruptly without Clark able to give in a farewell word or two of his own.

 _Tough_.

“Conner,” a voice calls out as the shoji screen slides to the side and Damian steps inside the room, shoulders straight and chin jut out with confidence. Not at all like how he had been half an hour ago, crushed and devastated from the news of Raven’s death. It’s fascinating, but Conner couldn’t fault the dude for trying to mask his emotions. One copes in different ways, after all. (At least, Damian isn’t taking it out on them.)

“Yeah?” He responds while straightening his posture, blowing away the strands of hair that had fallen in front of his face.

“Come with me.” And, _oh no_ , Damian is going to kill him, and he blanches. He had heard of stories: Damian with a sword. Damian with a plane. Damian with a _long piece of Kryptonite that he stole from his father while he had been unconscious due to a nerve toxin and had used it to stab Superman once._ Fuck. He knows he should have taken the chance to write his last will and testament when Luthor had asked him about it once a long time ago. (Which was … _odd_ , now that he thinks about it. Luthor never really asked for his input.)

Still, as he looks at the shadows under Damian’s eyes and the almost unnoticeable quivering of his bottom lip, Conner couldn’t find the strength to decline. (Well, there’s _that_ , and the fact that Damian had looked like he’d been ready to drag him off to who-knows-where. Better to go along with it than be subjected to an absurd hand grip that should not be possible for a human being and the possibility of bumping into whatever wall or corner.) He jumps off the bed and lands perfectly on his feet. “Okay.”

“ _Kent_.” Conner stops the automatic _“yeah”_ that’s ready to come out of him at the remembrance that he’s not the only Kent in the room. Clark looks at Damian in surprise, but he reacts much faster than Conner had a few seconds ago, rising to a stand before Damian could even say, “You too.”

Oh. Conner blinks, understanding finally dawning his features at the request.

Damian’s going to kill them both.

“I want you to see what this war has cost my family.”

… _Oh._

He had been kidding with the “Damian will kill him/them” shtick. He _really_ had been (—because, Damian is Robin, and Robin would _never_ act on the intent—), but _by god_ does the concept of death by his hand sound a lot better than whatever he just said.

\--

Wherever they’re meant to go is obviously restricted to anyone without authorisation, and he lets his fingers brush the gate that’s been pushed open, before ducking into another hallway, falling instep with Clark. There’s a coldness to the air that tastes suspiciously of something sinister, and he exhales through his nose, his lungs constricting from the chilly breath. It’s probably nothing; just his nerves acting up. 

He diverts his attention to the scene around him.

The eerie passageway they’re currently traversing upon is one word: _eerie_. And, _yes_ , he knows he’d said eerie twice in that sentence, but like, _come on_. It’s literally a pathway in a _dungeon,_ one that he’d only really seen in old fantasy movies—a very _cosy_ dungeon at that. Conner doesn’t know which one alarms him more: the fact that they’re in a dungeon or the fact that the dungeon’s cleaner than any of the bedrooms he used to have.

(Conner uncurls his shaking hands.)

“I feared your plan would fail at the beginning,” Damian starts as they round a corner, and he wonders if all the members of the League have their own map of the place, in case someone gets lost from the sheer number of these winding passages. “An army without killers is no army at all.”

The fire of the multiple torches lined up against the wall crackle as they continue along, shadows dancing and stretching with every flicker. It’s intriguing— _beautiful,_ and Conner could _feel_ it slithering up his legs and arms, coiling around him in a vice-grip. It’s cold, unrelenting, so _so beautiful,_ and— ( _“What—what are you_ doing?”)

He sucks in a sharp breath, and the feeling goes away.

A few steps in front of him, Damian continues walking on, but there’s a subtle shift in his shoulders that makes the air turn even colder. “But, Batman believed in you.” _Ah._

Conner does not look at Clark nor does he acknowledge the way Clark’s eyes had widened, choosing instead to focus on the erratic beating of his own heart as it anticipates the words that Damian is yet to release. There’s electricity crackling and charging in the air that only he can see and feel, but before it could turn into something akin to a tempest ready to wreak havoc on everything, Damian’s voice quiets it down.

“You cost me my father.” A pause, and Conner swears his heart had jumped up into his throat. “And, my teammates.” Another pause, and he doesn’t look at Clark—he _can’t_ look at him, hands trembling at his side. _“I won’t forgive that.”_

He doesn’t see them—he doesn’t _think_ of them and their faces and their names—and their deaths and corpses strewn over debris and dirt. Conner doesn’t see their blood and their torn selves, and Conner doesn’t hear their cries and his ragged breathing and the shrieks and screams of the large flying creatures of hell. And, maybe he should be glad. He _should_ be. 

A single steel door to their left comes into view, and the sinister feeling he had felt is stronger now, and he can _smell_ something. It’s blood and sweat and rotten flesh, slowly burning the insides of his nose—it’s a heck of a lot worse than Constantine's cigarette cologne.

“Nightwing convinced me not to voice my many objections,” Damien continues as they slow to a stop in front of it, and he turns around, hands clasped behind his back to face them. ““There are always risks in war,” he said.”

Conner blinks.

“He’s not saying that anymore,” Damien finally ends as he opens the slotted peephole on the door, taking a small step to the side to allow them space to look inside. It’s Conner that walks up to the door, sparing a fleeting glance at his friend’s face. It’s guarded, not a peep of emotion, and though it alarms him, he takes a peek inside.

The room is dark, no source of light, but he could vaguely make out the green lining the walls before his eyes can adjust properly and— There’s a … man: tall and wide shoulders, straitjacket and slick dark hair. He’s rather familiar, rocking back and forth as he mutters incoherently under his breath, and— Oh. _Oh._

_“Shit.”_

Damian closes it not a second later, but that’s all the time Conner needs for the growling and salivating face of Richard Grayson to be completely imprinted in his mind. And, he tries to count: one—two—three—four— _fuck._ (Conner doesn’t know which one is worse: black and green of poison and Kryptonite, or the sickly yellow of death and insanity.) “You used the _Lazarus Pit.”_

When he meets his gaze, there’s an unspoken inquiry that doesn’t leave his lips, and Conner shrugs, “It’s not exactly classified information.”

“Right, of course.” But, there’s disbelief and suspicion in the slowness of his response and in the way his head had canted to the side, and Conner lets go of another shrug, because, though it hadn’t been classified information, Damian knew that no one who knew of it would ever really bring it up in conversations unless necessary. And, in all his time with the Titans, there had never been a time where it _had been_ necessary to know of the pit’s existence.

“I just know enough.” But, he had heard of stories: of a hellish home. Of hellish brothers. _Of a hellish father that can bring people back to life with his waters._ And, that's enough. “At least, enough to know you shouldn’t have done that.”

Pause. “She told you.”

And, Conner shrugs a third time. (Because, he had heard stories, and she’d told them all as they sat in the darkness of her room, backs against the wall and shoulders touching.) “Why’d you do it? You _promised_ her you wouldn’t.”

There’s a murkiness in his emerald gaze, and he watches as Damian’s jaws clench from the reminder of—the promise he made to her after the paradooms left the earth? The sudden news of her death? Conner doesn’t know, but it doesn’t take long before the hardness of his expression softens into regret and mourning, and he looks away.

“He was my brother,” Damian tells them softly, and Conner’s throat tightens at the unfamiliar gentleness in his words, “I had to take the chance.”

...

_“It just didn’t work.”_

_Fuck_ , Conner really wishes Damian had killed him instead, and he shoves his hands into his pockets and closes his eyes.

(He swears he’ll tell him, but not— _not now._ Damian doesn’t need to know now.)

\--


	6. Chapter 6

The few months after had been rather … _difficult_ , if he is being honest with himself, and he clicks his tongue when nobody answers his knock. _Right,_ of course. “Mr and Mrs Lee, it’s Superboy,” he says through the gaps of the door, and he feels rather silly doing so.

Well, anyone would feel at least a bit embarrassed whispering into a door really, and he shakes away the colour that had flooded his face self-consciously. Conner coughs awkwardly into a fist, before rapping the door with it in three short knocks. “Mr and Mrs Lee?” he calls out again, but louder this time, hoping that the added volume would elicit some kind of response behind the door.

Seconds tick by without much of anything, and he takes a step back, his cheek resting on the heel of his palm. There’s a groan that leaves his throat. It’s short and frustrated, and gosh. He is so _tired._ Massaging the spot between his eyebrows to rid off the sudden dullness pounding underneath his skull, reminding him of all the things he had done for the past two months.

Oh, _god,_ has it really been two months?

Another groan, and it feels like he’s grown a hundred years older when the realisation hits him that, _yeah,_ it’s been two months.

Maybe after all of this is finished, he might just quit being Superboy altogether.

Pfft.

He wouldn’t, of course. He’s just joking.

...

_Or, is he?_

He rolls his eyes behind his eyelids.

Yes. The answer is “yes, he’s _just_ joking,” but it’s becoming quite hard not to mean it—especially when he remembers the past several patrols that had gone south, town-supply shortages that had caused some spike in the community’s ties with one another, raids that could have gotten a lot worse if not for Lady Luck siding with them at the last moment, and so much running and flying and adrenaline that he’s pretty much just surviving off at least two hours a sleep a day. (He’s pretty sure he sleeps more than that, but he’s making a point, _damn it._ )

Don’t get him wrong—he loves being a superhero and everything a superhero stands for, but doing a lot of things by one’s own self is draining. ( _For the lack of a better term,_ because it’s much _more_ than just draining. It’s like everything in him is getting sucked in by something, and he’s all skin and bones underneath his suit, but he’s not feeling particularly eloquent enough to find the proper word to pin it on.)

Sure, he has townsfolk of Smallville helping to support him as much as they can. (There had been the initial shock of finding a superhero living right under their noses, and the chaos that had ensued from that revelation didn’t come as a shock to him. What _did_ genuinely surprise him though is the easy acceptance that “oh, of course, the Kents have a superhero son.” ( _Son,_ not sons, because apparently they cross the line with the thought of Clark being Superman, despite the whole earth becoming hell and the human-Kryptonian hybrid teen the Kents have adopted out of nowhere. Not that he nor his parents told anyone though, because who knows what _that_ would lead to. _Still._ It’s kind of funny.))

And, really, he is grateful for all of the help they give each day; for all the schedules they had taken upon themselves to stick to for patrolling; for all the manual labour they’ve done, setting up barriers and the like, and more. And, they’re pretty damn good at the things they do.

But.

But, Conner knows better.

They’re not used to fighting. They’re not used to taking what isn’t theirs. They’re not used to taking risks and going out of their comfort zones and trying to be someone else. They’re just … ordinary _civilians_ from an ordinary _town,_ and even though he knows what people are capable of doing for survival (—had seen it first hand; had _felt_ it first hand—), they aren’t like _him._

They’re just ordinary people. Just like Ma and Pa.

And, suddenly he feels something suffocate him and (— _he still wishes they’d be selfish instead—be as selfish as Luthor—with self preservation in the forefronts of their mind—and—and—_ “We’re needed here, son.”) —

 _Fuck._ Not the time.

After another second stuck in his thoughts, Conner finally releases a sigh. “I’m coming in!” 

The door knob breaks easily in his grip, and he places it down on the floor before kicking the door open with his foot gently. It moves slowly from his reserved strength, the old hinges giving off a whine that turns shriller the more it opens. He pokes his head inside first, eyes scanning intently, before stepping inside fully, arms in front of him in a defensive stance.

The Lees had called him earlier through the emergency line he’d passed around a month ago (—seems the Resistance had solved the problem with the communication lines a lot faster than he initially thought—), saying they needed help with something. Not _really_ an emergency that needed his help, but Conner had learned to just go with it after the fourth call.

It’s quiet, and he sweeps his gaze along the walls and the rooms and the floors. There doesn’t seem to be any evidence of a struggle or a fight, and the only thing that seems to be out of place is the half-open door of the refrigerator in the kitchen. He closes it after checking inside, noting its emptiness.

He looks through the rooms, checking for anything that might be odd, but before he could even check the upper level of the house, he had already known they’re gone. The half-filled luggages and bags in the hallway and bedroom only serve to confirm his thoughts. They probably couldn’t wait for him to arrive, and had fled hours before he came. Maybe, that’s why their red pickup truck is missing from the front.

Conner sighs. 

News of places being taken over by parademons and villains have increased during these two months, with many being neighbouring towns, and even Smallville has had to deal with a few parademon breaches recently. It doesn’t really surprise him that more and more people had left to look for a better place to hide away from danger, and the Lee household isn’t any different. It is, after all, an understandable reaction.

Still, there’s a pang in his chest at that thought, and the suffocating feeling is getting harder and harder to stamp down. ( _Selfish, selfish, selfish._ )

Nevertheless, it seems that they’re safe (hopefully still) and hadn’t been taken or killed by parademons, so he lets his shoulders fall.

Conner isn’t needed here anymore, and he leaves.

\--

He doesn’t fly. Not because he can’t, but just because he’d rather walk (— _so much_ _running and flying and adrenaline,_ that he’s honestly grown quite sick of it—), and he takes a small glance behind him and into the general area where he knows Smallville is, far from the farmhouse.

A moment or two, he tears his gaze away and continues looking at the pathway ahead of him.

“Hmmm.” He hums without much of a thought, the sound stretching quite lengthily, and before he knows it, he’s suddenly singing some kind of melody under his breath. He doesn’t remember which song it is, or if it even really exists, but it’s quite familiar, and he can vaguely see Ma and Pa Kent slow dancing in the living room, a faint laughter ringing in his ear and the smell of spices in the air.

A twitch in his jaw makes the corner of his lips tug upwards in what seems to be a smile at the vision, but it dies down quickly, leaving the line of his mouth in this awkward point between a smile and a grimace.

He kicks a pebble on the ground and it skids somewhere to the side.

 _Two months._

Or, well, _almost_ two months, but the heaviness in their gaze and the apologies in their voice hasn’t gone away. Conner feels something inside him twist and turn—an unpleasant thing that has him wanting to scratch at his chest. It feels … _empty_ , but at the same time so full.

He runs his fingers through his hair.

It’s been two months (— _almost,_ because it had taken him a few days after Clark and Raven had left—) since he had gathered up the courage to talk to them about their decision to stay and their leaving him out of the loop. He had forgiven them—told them so, pushing as much emotion as he can to make them understand that he really, _really_ does forgive them. (It hadn’t been difficult to let go of his anger and frustration, because Conner _knows_ them. Jonathan and Martha Kent are kind and selfless. He could see it in the way they pour everything they have into helping everyone and anyone who needs it, sweat in their brows and smiles on their faces as they step back and admire the new fence they had helped built, and _really,_ Conner is more ashamed that he hadn’t seen this coming.)

(And— _he still wishes they’d be selfish instead—be as selfish as Luthor—with self preservation in the forefronts of their mind—and—and—_ “We’re needed here, son.”)

(This time, he lets the guilt and shame continue suffocating him.)

Still, it doesn’t surprise him that their _own_ regret and the guilt hadn’t receded—not after their heart-to-heart, not the week after that, nor during the two months that had followed. It still grips them, haunting their actions and their words, and Conner breathes, nostrils flaring when he finds it difficult to suppress the urge to curse.

(He promised Ma Kent he wouldn’t, and _fucking hell,_ he’ll be damned if he can’t go through with it. … Conner promised not to curse out loud. He never said anything about stopping the use of profanities in his head.)

Something yellow and gold in the corner of his eyes catches his attention, and he blinks when he realises what they are. _Daisies._

Another thought, a small one, has him cutting a bunch of them and arranging them as best as he can without damaging them any further. He doesn’t have anything to roll them up in, but that’s okay. Conner doesn’t mind holding them like this, and he smiles gently at the flowers in his hands. 

Daisies. _Ma Kent’s favourite._

Okay, so maybe things at home are awkward and tense, and maybe the guilt and the regret and shame flow thick in their actions and their words, but that’s okay. He’s got the rest of his life to make them see he’s forgiven them, and he’s got the rest of his life to make his own shame become a distant memory.

Everything will turn out fine.

He continues walking home.

\--

No. Something’s … Something’s _wrong,_ and he stops, his left leg frozen on the floor while his right slowly settles back down to the ground from it’s mid-step. His hands shake, and he doesn’t care about the petals that fall off from the erratic movement.

A sound from the back causes him to break free from his frozen state, and he breathes. It’s fine; it’s probably just them.

But, he doesn’t let his hearing reach out. He doesn’t let himself see through the walls. He should—he _should,_ but he doesn’t. He doesn’t know what he’ll see or hear, and so he walks: past the living room, through the hallway, and into the kitchen where the door leading to the back is.

His fingers curl against the knob, gently, too afraid that it’ll break in his grip, and he pulls.

(It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine—)

“Hello? Ma? P—” His voice dies.

The parademon bares its teeth at him, but all Conner could see is _red._ (Red on her clothes, red on his head, red on its claws, _red on—_ )

\--

It’s her tiny intake of breath that snaps him out of his daze, and he groggily lifts his head up to rest on his shoulder to look at her. Cloak on and hood up. _Of course._ Two months, and she’s still the same.

He could feel himself give her a smile, but his lips hurt, and he could taste dirt and sweat and something— _something that makes him want to burn his mouth with fire and sulfur and vomit out his insides until he dies._

“Hey,” he says—or maybe something to that effect when she reaches him, her walk tentative and slow, before she falls to her knees in front of him, an airy and soft _thump_ sounding resulting from the action. Her hood slides down, and he could see himself in the reflections of her eyes.

“You can let go now,” she whispers as her fingers find themselves on his arm. She feels so _warm_ and so _real,_ and his hand tightens around the wooden handle that’s currently trapped in his grip. Her eyebrows are trembling, and he watches as the corners of her mouth press in a tight line. “It’s okay. You can let go.”

“I’m sorry. I’m—I’m _so sorry.”_ (Conner doesn’t know who says that, if it’s her or him, but it makes him want to cry, to bawl his eyes out—but he—he _can’t_ cry—he’s not _created_ to— _and—_ )

He swallows.

The sound of the shovel hitting the ground is loud, but he doesn’t take any heed of it as he looks at the stark whiteness of his knuckles, the pallid skin of his hands dotted with soil and dried blood. And, he stares at them—and, he stares some more—and, _he stares and he stares_ until her hands cover his, and he can’t see the soil and the dried blood anymore.

“Breathe in,” she says, her thumb rubbing against the inside of his wrist, her voice low and hushed. She’s so close and so _warm,_ and he listens as she inhales and exhales, her breath on his cheek and a plea in her eyes. _“Breathe in with me.”_

And, so he does, and Conner closes his eyes. (He doesn’t want to see her—he doesn’t want to see it smiling up at him, teeth _red_ , and body so far away from its head—he doesn't want to see Ma and Pa buried underneath the apple tree several feet in front of him—behind her. He doesn’t want to see _anything._ )

_Breathe in, breathe out._

Before the sun completely sets below the horizon, Raven and Conner leave for Metropolis.

(He doesn’t say anything when he sees her place flowers—yellow and gold; _Ma’s favourites_ —on top of their crudely dug graves, but there’s something in his chest when he watches her place her hands on the dirt, face flush with emotion as she bids her own farewell that makes him—makes him _what?_ Conner doesn’t know—Conner doesn't _want_ to know, and he turns away.)

\--


	7. Chapter 7

The concept of death isn’t unfamiliar to him. It had its grip on him since before he even existed, with multiple of his “brothers” dying horrible deaths due to their instability. (And, Conner thinks about those that hadn’t died then, ugly and deformed inside their pods — half-finished products that looked nothing like him. They looked nothing like him — they looked nothing like _anything_ really. Just blobs of meat and flesh and teeth and other things he’d seen only twice in his life.) And, it hadn’t let go of its hold on him ever since, with Donovan, Mercy, those people who had fallen victim to Cyborg not-Superman, those who he hadn’t been able to save as a Teen Titan. Those who _used to be Teen Titans._ Those who —

Conner stops.

Death is … Death is a clingy bitch.

“Conner.” Something seizes him, and he stumbles forward even before the whirl of magic has settled. It’s crushing, almost, but Conner doesn’t fight Clark’s smothering, even when his stubble scratches his skin. He doesn’t fight it when Lois wraps her arms around them, and her hair tickles his nose. He doesn’t fight it, and the look Raven gives him makes him close his eyes.

“Hey, babe,” Conner swallows. “Dad.” (Why does his tongue feel so dry?)

* * *

The chair he’s sitting on is cold, a plastic monobloc chair that’s situated beside a tall potted plant that needs to be watered. He thinks of getting up from his seat to look for a glass of water or two, but it’s not a thought that sticks for long.

It’s _quiet,_ and Conner shifts in his seat as he continues waiting, legs drawn up to his chest and a cheek on his knee. He never really minded the quiet before, but he is — what was the word? Restless? Or, that’s what Raven had told him earlier, face tired and one eye opened as she held herself midair.

(“I don’t _fidget.”_ “I said “restless,” not fidgety.” “Wh—? They mean the same thing!”

(Despite the indignancy that had overflowed from him, the shadows of her face had let up slightly as though he hadn’t just been denying something in an embarrassingly squeaky voice. She had looked _relieved._ … But, relief from what?

(And, then she closed her eyes again and continued.)

Meditation had never been something he’d thought of doing. He’s _Superboy._ There’s no — there wasn’t really any need for him to meditate and stuff. He doesn't need any of that.

But, Raven does, and he watches her as the blue of her magic glows all around her.

She’s been at it for almost twenty minutes now, ever since Lois and Clark had excused themselves to talk about something apparently urgent (which had _nothing_ to do with the beeping comm, or say they said), and his fingers twitch when her eyebrow quivers. That’s the fifth time she’d done that, but perhaps … that’s normal? Conner doesn’t know, and he watches as the lines of her face slowly vanish, smoothing back into neutrality.

Being the latest (— last? He’s not sure what word he’s supposed to use —) addition to the Teen Titans, he hadn’t seen her meditate as much as the rest. However, he at least knows it shouldn’t be causing her this much unease. It shouldn’t … right? He had never really observed her properly at the few times he caught her meditating before, and he purses his lips together as guilt blossoms. (He really should have been more attentive to all of them, and _damn it.)_

Again, he suppresses the want to reach out to her when he sees sweat slide down her temple. Conner curls his hands into fists. (He wants to laugh though, because as much as he feels guilt, as much as he’s worried — the feelings are muffled. Muted. It’s not loud enough for him to want to do anything _and_ act on the want.)

When the door opens, Raven’s power stills and Clark and Lois enter the room.

(His thoughts settle as well.)

They don’t look … okay. Not _shit,_ but not good either. It really isn’t difficult to figure out why though, and he thinks that maybe he really should find water for the plant, if only to distract himself from — from _what?_ (It’s empty, _so empty,_ and Conner doesn’t know _why,_ and it feels so _wrong,_ this feels so, _so—_ he should feel something, _right?_ )

Raven is the one who talks first, because of course she would. She’s kind like that, and Conner fiddles with a strand of his hair. “So?”

Lois’s face instantly breaks away from its grim expression and she smiles. It doesn’t do much to ease the sudden greyness of the room, but she’s trying. “They’re safe.”

(Not “Smallville is safe,” because Lois isn’t a liar.)

* * *

“Fifty-seven people,” Clark doesn’t stutter when he repeats the confirmed number. “Thanks, John. See you guys when you get back. Stay safe.”

“Will do, Clark.” And then, the face on the screen is gone.

He’d been given the rundown of events earlier: most of the Resistance had been at Gotham when the distress signal from Smallville had informed them of the emergency. (Conner had scrunched his eyebrows in curiosity, because he hadn’t sent a distress signal. Then again, it could’ve been anyone. After all, Smallville is a town with a population of about forty-five thousand. Or, at least, used to be forty-five thousand.) Due to the direness of the circumstance, Raven, being the only one able to, had been called in to teleport herself and a few others to the site.

(“I left to look for you and Jonathan and Martha but …” “Pfft, you found all three of us, didn’t you?”)

“There’s a safe place ten miles down Michigan. Kate confirmed that the parademons had left the area weeks ago and haven’t returned since. It’s a bit far from here but the survivors could probably ...” he hears her voice falter before she starts again, “They could probably be safe in the—”

It’s not long before she reaches for Clark’s arm, sobbing out: “I’m sorry.” Lois hiccups, her face pale and her shoulders trembling. “I — I thought we’d had their flight pattern down, but I didn’t — I should have — Clark, _I’m sorry.”_

Clark holds her hand, his smile impossibly tiny. Despite the fragile way his eyebrows had curved, his voice is anything but. “Lois,” he says, “You’ve done so much in so little time. It’s okay.”

“But, still, I should’ve …”

“Even if we knew they were going to attack Smallville, there were about hundreds of parademons. We wouldn’t have been prepared either way. It’s not your fault. Fifty-seven people is a lot.”

The moment they share is sweet and comforting, but there’s … _something_ in what he had said that makes Conner’s ears ring and his hands clammy. _It’s not her fault._

“Clark’s right, Lois,” Raven begins. “If anything, it’s my fault. I should’ve been able to teleport more than just Shazam and Steel, but I couldn’t and I—”

“Raven, no. You were at Gotham when we contacted you. You were tired. It’s not your fault either, okay?” Clark looks at them both. “Neither of you is at fault.”

 _It’s not your fault,_ Clark said, and that’s right. This isn’t Lois’ fault. This isn’t anyone’s fault, really. If anything, this is Darkseid. It’s all Darkseid and his evil plans and his paradooms and parademons and — and, _no._ That’s wrong. It _sounds_ wrong, but he’s not sure why, because it’s the _truth._

All of a sudden, it’s warm.

(A thought, small, slithers into his mind: _it’s yours, you weren’t strong enough, you_ should have been _strong enough_ — but, a hand finds his shoulder and the thought is cast out. “It’s not yours,” Raven whispers. “If it’s not mine, then it’s not yours.” Conner nods.)

This isn’t anyone’s fault but Darkseid’s.

But, if it’s not anyone’s fault than his, then why does that feel so wrong?

It’s not Lois’s fault; it’s Darkseid’s. It’s not Raven’s fault, it’s Darkseid’s. It’s not Clark’s fault; it’s … it’s — oh.

_Oh._

“This is yours.”

It’s a whisper, his voice barely reaching his ears, but it resounds in the room either way. It cuts through the noise like a bullet, and the voices — the sounds, the noise — hush. Conner feels the shift in the air, and it further ignites the warmth into a burning inside him. He clenches his hands at his sides into fists.

The fire is scorching — _hot._ It spreads like wildfire: his cheeks, his ears, his chest, and it’s — it’s weird, because it’s so _cold._ Freezing, because if it’s not, then why are his hands shaking and his teeth clacking? This is … what is this?

Anger? Rage?

Why is it so _red?_ (So much red, _so so much —_ )

“Conner,” someone starts after a second of him suffocating in the feeling, and it sounds revolting. _Disgusting._ (It’s Lois, and she moves forward, one hand raised as she steps in front of Cla—) “Honey, listen, you—”

Conner flies past her.

_“This is your fault.”_

He feels something crack underneath his knuckles, and Conner watches as Clark staggers backward, cheek quickly turning blue from the impact of his punch. Something twitches in the side of his jaw, because it’s not enough — _that’s_ not enough. How can that be enough?

_It’s never going to be enough._

“This is _your fucking fault,_ Clark!” And, just like that, Conner hits him a second time. Clark looks dazed, _good,_ but he’s not dead — he’s not _dead — he should have stayed dead he should have—_

Something stops him from landing another fist on Clark. It’s cold and it’s ... Raven, he realises when he looks down and sees black magic holding him down.

“Raven, let me go. _Let me go!”_ He thrashes against her power, pulling and clawing at the energy, but to no avail. _Fucking magic._ “Raven!”

“And, let you kill Clark? Sorry, Conner, but no.” A buzz in the air is the only signal he’s been given before he feels his bonds tighten and it starts pulling him to Raven. In front of him, Clark rises to his feet. His expression is pained, but it’s not for himself, and Conner curses because _goddamn it, stop looking at him like that!_ His feet skids on the floor, and Conner grits his teeth in frustration at his inability to stop himself from being dragged back. 

“Rae! Come on, _please, let me go!”_ his voice cracks, and he struggles.

“Calm down—”

“No! It’s—It’s _his_ fault! Everything is his fault!” Why does he have to calm down? This is _all_ Clark, and he throws another scathing glance at the bastard. At least he has the decency to look away, but why doesn’t it make him feel better?

“Conner, I know, but you have to calm down—”

“They didn’t …” he chokes. He doesn’t fight his bonds anymore, and before he knows it, he’s on his knees with his breath laboured. “They didn’t have to die. _No one had to die.”_

 _“Calm down.”_ She is compelling, and he breathes. In and out. In and out. Until he’s fine, and the red is gone. So does his binds.

When he blinks, it’s so calm. And, he manages to smile at her when she walks in front of him and stretches out a hand. He — no.

This is wrong, and Conner thinks he could throw up at the sudden flip-flop of his emotions. He shouldn’t be calm. He _isn’t_ calm. Why is he calm? This isn’t normal. This _isn’t._

He slaps her hand away, and — _ah,_ there it is. Anger. Because, what the hell?

“Conner, don’t hurt—”

Of course, Clark would defend anyone but himself, and something coils around his lungs, tightening until he thinks he would suffocate from the pressure. But, he’s unimportant right now, and Conner rises to stand.

“Is anything I feel real?” Conner pushes, and he feels her power pulsate for a moment. He doesn’t know what to think of that momentary slip, and his heart hammers against his ribs. Anger is replaced by dread, but there’s little difference it makes, and the adrenaline pumping in his veins makes him continue. “Raven, is anything I feel _real?”_

“Conner, of course? I don’t—”

“You’re lying. _Stop it.”_

Her jaw ticks, and _finally,_ there’s something else in her than the apathy. ( _Finally,_ because he needs her to _feel._ ) “Conner, I’m not lying. I haven’t done anything.”

“Then, why the hell am I like this?”

Confusion. “What?”

But, Conner knows better. (She’s Raven. She’s a Titan. She’s an empath. She’s a dem—)

“Stop getting— _stop reading_ my emotions! _Stop changing them!_ I don’t need you to—” He stops to laugh. (He could hear someone in his head calling for him to stop, but why should he?) “I don’t need this. I don’t _need_ to be calm. I don’t need to be calmed down.”

“No, you _need_ to, or you’re going to hurt someone else.”

A beat, and ha. _Haha._

“That’s — that’s it, isn’t it? You’re doing this— You don’t think he is— Open your fucking eyes, Rae! This is _his_ fault. It’s his fault everyone’s dead and this world is far gone, and— Do you even _care?_ Do you even—”

“Conner, stop.”

“They’re _your friends and family, did you even—”_

“Stop.”

“Or, maybe not? After all, you are a—”

It doesn’t hurt when her palm hits his cheek, but the sound of skin on skin is loud, and he is glaring holes at her face, eyes blazing through his lashes. Her breathing is ragged, chest heaving as her eyes burn red — _red, red;_ so that’s what it looks like.

“How dare—! You— _You—_ ” But, the red (crimson, scarlet; _hellfire_ ) doesn’t last long, and suddenly her anger is replaced by realisation and then horror and — and then what?

“I … I have to go,” is what she whispers before she disappears, and Conner is left to stare at where she had vanished into the floor.

What was _that?_

But, he doesn’t have the time to think about it (about the darkness that had returned to the planes of her face; about how small she had suddenly become as the anger had left her body; about the sudden inexplicable feeling of something being ripped from him as she mouths _“I’m sorry”_ just before her head could sink into the floor) when — 

“Conner.” Does Clark not have an ounce of tact in his body? Apparently not. And, apparently neither does he have any shame, and Conner freezes when he hears, “ _Son?_ ”

Son. Ha! What a joke.

“Clark, just—!” his voice raises and so does his fist, but he could see Ma and Pa Kent — _almost —_ in the way Clark looks at him. Kind and gentle. _Kent._ (It’s not fair. _It’s not fair._ It’s not son, but _sons,_ and — Why does he look like them so much? _It’s not fair._ ) Conner lets his arm fall back to his side. “ _Just_ … stop.”

He slams the door off its hinges when he exits the room.

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... something to do


	8. Chapter 8

The turnout is small — as one would expect, and Conner tries not to silently count the _one, two, three_ people in the room for the fourth time during the last ten minutes.

It’s just tragic, because if it weren’t for what had transpired — if this had been held in different circumstances, there would have been throngs and throngs of people in the room. It would have been packed, each person sitting or standing shoulder to shoulder with the next. It would have been loud with emotions and thoughts and cries and grief. It would have been bittersweet — beautiful, even.

It would have been a funeral fit for Jonathan and Martha Ken, and Conner counts three: Lois, Clark and him. Quiet. It’s so _quiet,_ and the distance among each one of them may not be that much, but it’s cold.

And, it doesn’t really help that Clark hasn’t talked that much ever since it’s his turn to speak. There’s fumbling and muttering, but other than “they were the best parents I could ever ask for,” nothing else seems to be understandable.

On one hand, Conner can empathise with him. It’s … Well, it’s difficult. What _can_ he say? And, he rubs his arm at the recollection of how much he had tried to force even a single word out after he had buried them. (The only thing he’d been able to force out is something guttural and inhumane.)

But on the other hand, it’s his fault, isn’t it? It’s Clark’s fault, so why should Conner give him any empathy for all the suffering he’s feeling now? Clark doesn’t deserve that. He doesn’t, and Conner grits his teeth, fists shaking by his side.

“I, umm,” he hears Clark mutter out, “I’ll miss them.” There’s a crack in his voice when he finishes, and Conner drops the tension running through his veins.

It takes another ten minutes before the silence becomes unbearable and the funeral service comes to a close.

* * *

“Hey, you okay?” Lois asks him, and he scooches to the side to give her some space to sit. (Not that he needed to, considering he’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, and there’s plenty of floor for her to use.) She flops to the floor gracelessly, and Conner snorts.

The lie comes easy to him when he replies: “Yeah, I’m okay.” Lois doesn’t believe him though, and he shrugs. “Just thinking.”

“Yeah? About what?”

“Mm,” he hums, tilting his head to the left and then to the right, “this and that.”

 _This_ and _that_ being things he'd rather keep to himself until death probably, but he couldn’t really tell her that. It'd worry anyone, especially her, and they couldn't have that. Lois, being one of those behind the Resistance, is already busy with the reports and planning and all that, and he doesn’t want to add his thoughts to her already full plate. It’s not important anyway (or, so he says), and he tells her exactly that when she offers a listening ear if he needs one.

“Come on, lay it on me.” She places a fist above her chest while winking at him, as though that would do anything to convince him.

Unfortunately for her, that doesn’t do much for him. It’s cute though, he’ll give her that. Unfortunately for him, she’s Lois and just the fact that she’s Lois Lane is enough to make him give in. _Ugh._

Well, she’s offering, so might as well.

He taps his chin, averting his gaze away from her prodding stare. After a second of wondering how to go about it, he gives up thinking. “Aren’t you angry at him? He did this.”

Yup, _not important._ Pssh. But, hey. At least she looks like she’d expected this from him, if she’s able to stay composed despite his sudden inquiry.

She hums first before answering, “Well, of course I was mad at him when he came back.”

“And?” Conner pushes.

“ _But,”_ she emphasises, inclining her head to the side as though the weight of the word is physically heavy. It probably is. “I was relieved that he came back home. I—” Lois sighs. “Look, Conner. Life as it is has its … _times,_ and sometimes the only thing you can do left is count the blessings you have left.”

Even if that blessing had kicked off the end of the world? That doesn't sound right, and Conner shakes head, “I — I don’t think I can forgive him, Lois. I’m sorry.”

“I know.” Her hand on his shoulder is comforting, and suddenly, he feels like a child in her midst. It’s a feeling that’s almost weird coming from her, but it’s not exactly unwanted. After all, she’s Lois Lane and Lois Lane is Clark’s wife. (Maybe he should stop calling her "babe" every chance he gets, huh?) “ _He_ knows. And, we’re not asking you to, because that’d be unfair to you.”

 _Or anyone,_ seems to be the unspoken continuation, and he nods his head.

They haven’t asked _anyone_ to forgive Clark, and albeit wanting to keep his composure for Lois’ sake, the corners of his mouth twitch at the remembrance that most people in this establishment hates Superman. No one has forgiven him, but though the words: “serves him right” echoes in his mind, it’s running stale, and he nods when she continues,

“But, we need to stick together, even if it hurts.”

“I know.”

* * *

“Clark lied, by the way,” he whispers after a few minutes of amicable silence. Beside him, he could feel her tense up at his words. The corner of his mouth twitches, amused almost, because he knows what she’s thinking. (Because she knows she can’t defend Clark. Because she knows that she can’t mediate between the two of them forever. Because she knows it _is_ Clark’s fault. Because she — Lois is _kind_ but she knows her kindness is not enough if her husband has added another wrong in his already long list of wrong deeds.)

Conner continues, careful not to give away his amusement: “Yeah. What he said? A complete lie.” (Because, whatever she’s thinking right now isn’t right.)

She swallows, thoughts racing. “O-oh?”

“Ma and Pa … They were the greatest parents _anyone_ could ever ask for.”

Surprise lights her face, and at the moment when she turns her head to face him, she looks less like the Lois of the past few days and more like the Lois that he had always known. “Yes, that. That they were.”

Conner grins, and her eyebrows furrow when she realises she’s been had.

“Wha— You jerk!” The shove she gives him makes him laugh, and for a moment, today is bittersweet. Perhaps, even beautiful. 

* * *

Food is some mushed up something that reminds him of porridge. (It’s — It’s porridge, right? Bland and tasteless and … wobbly porridge? Well, it didn’t taste like how Ma would make it, but there should be different kinds of porridge and this is just one of them. _Right?_ ) It’s hot and placed in a bowl, and Conner shifts his weight on one foot to the other as he continues to stare at the faded colour of her door.

He doesn’t knock. Well, not yet anyway, there’s still dread and confusion and anger lingering in his mind, and he doesn’t think it would be wise to see her and not know what to say. That’s just counterproductiv—

The door opens before he could even finish his thought, and he stays rooted in his spot as she emerges from the shadows of her room.

She had probably known he’d been outside her room for the last five minutes, and heat crawls to the back of his neck. From embarrassment at being caught or guilt from having her be the one who acts first when he should’ve been the one instead, he doesn’t know, but he doesn’t have time to dwell upon it now.

His mouth is tight as he smiles. “Hey.”

Raven doesn’t respond back as quick as he had anticipated, and his forced optimistic pretence falls apart to worry when he finds her paler and thinner and _darker._ It’s been three days since the fight, but that shouldn’t be enough time for her whole self to change like that. (In the back of his mind, he remembers her in his room — barefoot, out of her costume, _older_ somehow. Pale, thin and dark, but not like this.)

“Conner, look. What had happened before, I—” He isn’t sure if it’s from the lack of preparedness or something else, but her voice tapers away and she resorts to fiddling with the hem of her shirt.

Something twists inside him as he watches her. She’s small; tiny. _Wrong._ She isn’t small. She isn’t _tiny_ . She’s _Raven,_ and Raven is powerful and large and kind, and she’s — _she’s_ — “I’m so—”

He cuts her off. _“So!”_

Raven isn’t supposed to be small and tiny, stumbling over an apology that doesn’t sound right, and Conner forces himself to grin through the sick pit in his stomach.

“Lois said you might not have eaten anything for the past few days, so,” he raises the bowl higher. “Porridge?”

She blinks. “Umm, thanks.” 

And, maybe he should have let her finish her apology, because wasn’t she the reason why his emotions are out of line? But, she looks so much like how Clark had been hours earlier in that moment: all fumbling and muttering, unable to say the words they know they need to say, and despite everything, Conner really did understand him.

Conner _doesn’t want to_ understand.

Raven hesitates, “Wanna come inside?”

“Sure.”

A crushed ball of paper is what greets his right foot after just three steps in. It rolls away from him in the dark, but he’s too absorbed at the fact that — it’s a mess. Her room is a mess, and he did _not_ expect that.

He whistles. “Wow,” Conner starts, glancing around. “And, you said my room was messy. This looks a lot worse.” Laughter bubbles inside his chest. “What? Did a tornado come?”

Well, it’s not her room- _her room_ since this is just a random space with a cot on one side and whatever was originally in it has been pushed to another wall. (He could see a few training equipment, two file cabinets and a busted monitor of a computer, and he wonders what this room is supposed to be before it became her temporary room. And, to a bigger degree, what kind of company this building used to belong to. He really should ask someone about that.)

Carefully, he places the bowl on a nearby table and picks up a book lying open on the floor. It’s thick, old and, as he found out from flipping through the probably thousands of pages it has, definitely _not_ in English. Maybe Latin? Sumerian? Some kind of old and dead language? Who knows, really.

“Doesn’t take away that yours looked a lot worse.”

“What could possibly be worse than a tornado?”

“I’m not sure yet, but it’s probably related to what’d happened to Gar’s.”

_“Pfft.”_

A symbol — an oddly shaped letter S scorched into one of the pages draws him in, but he forces himself to tear his gaze away. There’s something there on the yellowed paper and spidery writings that seem to whisper out to him in sultry voices and dancing laughter. _Dangerous;_ it’s dangerous. He doesn’t need to be able to read and understand it to know that it’s dangerous. He hands it back to her.

(She exhales through her nose once it’s with her; a tiny yet sharp expulsion of breath that he elects to ignore.)

“Why didn’t you come?” The question wasn’t meant to be accusatory. It was just a question born out of genuine curiosity (and it was the first thing that came to his mind, really), and he winces inwardly at the sudden strike of guilt that had crossed her face.

A memory: of yellow flowers and apple trees and quiet goodbyes — of _her_ — and, _really._ He hadn't meant to come off as accusing, and he amends, “I mean, Lois and C— They would have wanted you to be there awhile ago.”

“I know,” she murmurs as she starts tidying the mess on her cot, collecting the stacks of books and papers that have covered almost the entirety of it. “I was … busy.”

Busy? Is that what she’s been like for the past three days since she’d locked herself in her room? (He imagines her cooped up in her room for the most of it, surrounded by books and training equipment and busted monitors.)

Raven resumes with her back turned to him, “And, besides, it’s something you have to do as a family.”

He blinks at her rather cold statement. Well, it _felt_ cold, and Conner sees her pull up her barriers, closing herself off from him — in the way her lips set in a strangely straight line, and in the way her knuckles had turned white, gripping her knees — and she angles herself away from him.

 _For_ _him._

Maybe he should feel relieved or even grateful that she’s distancing herself, because how many times had he contemplated on the legitimacy of his emotions? How many times had he felt the push and pull of his thoughts, warring against itself for the past few days on the basis that something foreign is still there?

How many times did he have to ask himself if they were really friends?

She knows all of this — _of course,_ she knows the state of his mind. She’s an empath; she probably has an inkling to what exactly it is that’s wrong with him. (His eyes land back on the books and crumpled papers and the chaos of her room; to the yellowed pages and spidery writings and the scorched _S_ symbols that mean something sinister. Conner doesn’t ask.) 

But, he doesn’t like the distance that’s growing wider with each tremble of his heart and furrowing of her eyebrows. It’s cold, and strangely enough Conner Kent has never been fond of the cold.

After a moment of deliberation, he goes to sit down next to her (she’d given up clearing her bed of stuff — there is just too many things —and is now sitting on the available space she’d managed to free up), the cot teetering slightly from the sudden additional weight.

“I thought that if I had killed him, I’d feel fine. Even now, I’d still believe I’d be okay if I just strangled him to death, y’know?”

Her magic flares, only a tiny bit, brushing against his skin as her eyes widened in startelement from his rather sudden choice of topic. Perhaps he should have gradually laid it down in a more graceful manner? Conner chuckles at her reaction, but it settles down rather quickly, sobriety taking amusement’s place.

There’s an itch at the tip of his fingertips at the idea of sending Clark to the grave; a thought that wouldn’t even have a _sliver_ of chance of becoming reality if not for the poison in his veins. And, it’d be so easy too, to just have him break like any other thing. It’s what he deserves, right?

It’s what Clark _deserves._

Conner sighs. “But, I wonder if that really were the case if I did it.”

Death is haunting, and despite his best efforts not to be, he is surrounded by Death. With Donovan, with Mercy; with those people who had fallen victim to Cyborg not-Superman; with those he hadn’t been able to save as Teen Titan; with those who used to be Teen Titan.

With those who he, until now, doesn’t have the strength to talk or think about just yet.

He hadn’t killed anyone, but he could feel their deaths pile up on his shoulders. It’s heavy — _so_ heavy. If he had killed Clark, would his body collapse from the shame and guilt and regret?

And, more than anything, Clark doesn’t deserve death. He really doesn’t. Conner knows as much. “So, thanks. For stopping me.”

“Don’t get me wrong. I’m still quite hurt,” he continues on before the small pause turns into a lengthy awkward silence.

On one of the metal legs of the cot, there’s a chip in the paint, and he scrapes it with a fingernail without a thought. It falls off and he looks at the black specks that had managed to cling on to his skin. “But, I would be lying if I said I don’t forgive you.”

He pauses and runs his tongue along the back of his teeth, his heart beating rather strongly against his ribs.

“And, I’m sorry as well.” There’s something stuck in his throat as he says those words _(_ _finally_ _),_ and he watches her carefully through the corner of his eyes. Her face is devoid of emotion, and he manages to smile a little at the familiarity of it. “I said things that weren’t right, and even if I was mad, I shouldn’t have said them to hurt you. I really shouldn’t have.”

“There were a lot of them you said that were right though, so it’s okay. I _am_ a good-for-nothing daughter of a demon. _Weak._ I know.”

Conner flinches. “Raven, you’re—”

She looks so small, with her shoulders drawn close to her and too large a clothes that seem to swallow her whole. Conner doesn’t need to be an empath like her to know that she believes that she’s weak, and he wants to tell her she’s not. She isn’t weak, and he is an idiot for even letting those words and other things fly out of his mouth.

“You're the strongest person I know,” is on the tip of his tongue, because she is. She really _is._ (Because how can she forgive so freely? How can she be so kind? How can she continue to be _hopeful_ despite everything?)

But, no. That’s not right. It doesn’t sound right — at least, it doesn’t sound right coming _from_ him. A random thought: _it’s not_ his _line to say,_ so he coughs into a fist. “Umm, you better eat the porridge … or, whatever that thing is before it turns cold. It — It doesn’t taste good cold.”

 _Pathetic._ He couldn’t even deny her previous statement, but the crude response of his does it’s job of changing the topic. 

The joints of the cot whine when he stands up and flies towards the table the bowl had been on, before carefully carrying and placing it in front of her. Once done, he straightens his back and says, “I’ll call you when dinner is ready.”

“Okay.”

This is for the best anyways. They don't have to reconcile, and he ignores the ache in his chest at the thought. His hand is on the doorknob before he knows it, and slowly, he turns to take one look back. It's instinctual — or, well, not really. Maybe it's from watching similar scenes of characters taking one last glance in movies and television series, but maybe it's really just human nature to look back, and she looks so resigned as she stirs the spoon silently, blowing out whatever warmth that’s left from her food, bent over the table awkwardly.

Raven looks so small, and — _ah, fuck it._

He stops her hand with his before she could lift the spoon to her mouth. The porridge-stuff-thing jiggles comically from the sudden halting of their movements, and she sets the spoon back down before it spills over. Her voice is still small when she calls his name in question, obviously confused. ... As well as a tiny bit amused, perhaps? _Good,_ because Conner wants her to feel anything else but the feeling of needing to be small.

“Okay, y’know what? Don’t eat it. That tastes like shit.” A brow is raised from the profanity. (Sorry, Ma, hope you can't hear me from wherever you are.) “They might have something else in the cafeteria.”

His arm doesn’t tremble when he stretches it towards her, his hand open for hers to take, “Wanna come and look?”

Conner doesn’t expect her to, because for all the time he’d known Raven, he’d never seen her take anyone’s hand — but, then she _is_ taking his, her fingers grasping his as she levitates off her bed.

It’s soft, warm and kind, not unlike how it had been months prior, and he tightens their hold, squeezing her hand when she finally lands down. Raven smiles at him, the corners of her eyes lined with the beginnings of a crow’s feet, and Conner’s breath stutters when he feels something familiar come back to him.

“Conner? You okay?”

When he answers, “Yeah, I’m okay,” he doesn’t lie.

(She’s Raven. She’s a Titan. She’s an empath. She’s _his_ friend.)

\--


End file.
